Trouble Magnet
by OughtaKnowBetter
Summary: Complete story! Wherein Daniel brings home some artifacts...


Disclaimer: Everything belongs to them, I own nothing but my talent and good looks, and there's even some question about that…

Trouble Magnet

            Klaxons sounded, ringing out a brassy warning impossible to ignore. Men in front of the massive Stargate scattered to the perimeter walls, allowing plenty of room for the event horizon to charge out from the ring in a blue flood. They plucked up several automatic weapons, and one shouldered an anti-tank gun, taking stations around the ring, ready to repel any force foolish enough to attempt an invasion.

            High above the scene, behind a thick glass window, General Hammond leaned over to speak into the mike. His voice echoed in the cavernous gate room, words clear to all the soldiers and removing the tension that had leapt to the ready. "At ease, people. It's SG-1, coming in on schedule."

            The blue flood settled into position, filling in the Stargate ring with an undulating field of what looked like ocean water lapping at the edges of a sideways saucer. The soldiers waited, expectant but still ready; it wouldn't be the first time that something unpleasant followed SG-1 home. First out of the shimmering event horizon was the ponderous and ungainly MALP, loaded with watermelon sized boulders. Peering through the glass and wishing he were closer for a better look, Hammond realized that these were the artifacts that Dr. Daniel Jackson had recovered from PSX-1280. Looking like mere rocks from a distance, they contained intricate literary symbols which Jackson had not yet been able to translate. Even Teal'c, having read Goa'uld all of his life, professed ignorance of their meaning, stating that while the writing looked extremely familiar, the juxtaposition of the letters was irrational. It was as if whoever carved those words into the rock had no use for vowels, and then put the information into code as well.

            The archeologist himself followed the MALP, one hand protectively on 'his' artifacts. The man's fair skin was well-tanned and burned in spots, Hammond realized, courtesy of three days on a desert planet where the artifacts had been found. Jackson paused to take a deep breath.

            Hammond smirked from behind the glass protective pane. "Appreciate the air-conditioning, Dr. Jackson?"

            Jackson grinned in return, swiping his cotton hat against his sweating forehead. "Hotter than the sands of Arabia, General," he called back.

            A large, dark-skinned Jaffa emerged from the blue, likewise blinking at the suddenly cooler light, waiting for his vision to adapt.

            "Teal'c, welcome back. Everything go all right?"

            "It is good to return, General Hammond." Teal'c brushed a few non-existent grains of sand off of his light-colored jacket. The clothing was designed to reflect as much of the desert heat as possible, but looking at the pair, Hammond was unconvinced of its effectiveness.

            Interrupted squabbling resumed as soon as the final pair of the SG-1 team left the Stargate behind. Colonel Jack O'Neill held his arm around Major Samantha Carter's waist, snugging her close. He also held her hand in what initially appeared to be a compromising position, were it not for the awkward and painful tilt to her wrist.

            "Sir, my hand is—ow!—fine. You can let go now," Carter objected, trying to pull away. "It's only a sprain. I need an ace wrap and an ice pack."

            "You need our favorite doctor," O'Neill said in no uncertain terms. "You may have a PhD in a bunch of sciences, Carter, but nowhere in those letters behind your name have I seen any with 'MD' among them. Get your ass—yourself down to Frasier. Sergeant, will you escort the major to the infirmary?"

            "I know the way, Colonel," Carter grumbled. "I can take myself there."

            "Sergeant?" O'Neill wasn't taking no for an answer. "And don't listen to her if she tries to dismiss you. I want you to turn her over to Doc Frasier personally. Got that?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "It's just a sprain. Sir," she tacked on from force of habit.

            O'Neill smiled victoriously. "Take her away, Sergeant." He turned to the glass window and sketched an airy salute. "Glad to be back, General. Had a wonderful time. Got a tan. Daniel picked up a lovely collection of very heavy rocks. Teal'c had an upset tummy with Junior, but he got over it. Did you get the postcard I sent?"

            Hammond snorted, acknowledging the attempt at humor. "I notice you didn't mention Major Carter. We'll debrief in one hour, Colonel. Go get cleaned up."

*          *          *

            "Caves," O'Neill explained. His silvered hair was still slightly damp after a quick shower but still standing up straight and short in military fashion. His clothes were fresh from his locker, and, he was grateful to note, he no longer stank. Neither did Jackson or Teal'c.

            Hammond leaned forward, letting his elbows rest on the large table in the briefing chamber. There were some papers in front of him with penciled-in notes, but those were more for show. Anything important that any of the SG-1 team told him, Hammond remembered. "Caves, Colonel?"

            "Caves, sir. As in, Carter fell down and went boom."

            "Or, more like, crunch," Jackson put in uncomfortably.

            "She was clearly injured in the fall." Teal'c summed it up. "Whereupon we returned to Stargate Command."

            "We didn't get all the artifacts," Jackson said, frowning, leaning back in his chair. "There were at least half a dozen more. And there were rudimentary pictures on the walls of the cave that I didn't get enough pictures of." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. "General, I wouldn't mind going back. I could just pop over and back, pick up the rest—"

            "You've got plenty of pebbles to work on, Daniel," O'Neill cut him off. "Why don't you translate those? After you finish what's on your plate, you can go back for seconds."

            "That sounds like an excellent idea, Dr. Jackson." Hammond sidestepped what could have easily turned into yet another typical SG-1 argument between brawn and brain. "See what you can figure out about these artifacts—" Hammond stopped himself from saying 'rocks'—"and then we'll talk about going back for the rest. Teal'c, didn't you say that getting close to those artifacts caused your symbiote to react?"

"I did, General Hammond. My symbiote became most agitated and disquieted in close proximity. However, that sensation subsided quickly. DanielJackson did not believe that it was the artifacts were the cause, a concept that was endorsed by all when Major Carter's equipment failed to discern any emanations from the—" and Teal'c turned an impassive gaze on Dr. Jackson—"_rocks_."

"I don't like the sound of that," Hammond mused. He stared at the photos blown up large against the wall that Jackson had taken. They showed the artifacts tumbled up against the cave wall, further stick pictures chipped into the wall above the stones. To Hammond they looked like a child's drawings in the sand—his granddaughter could do better—but if Jackson said they were significant, then they were significant. Even if Hammond and the rest of SGC couldn't understand them. The boulders, er, _artifacts_, would turn out to have some special meaning. "Dr. Jackson, I want a guard on those things at all times. What do you think caused Teal'c's symbiote to react like that?"

"General, they're harmless artifacts. Sam checked them out thoroughly," Jackson objected. "There was no radiation or emanations coming from them at any time. Whatever affected Teal'c's larval Goa'uld, it couldn't have been any of the artifacts. It was the only reason," and he glared at O'Neill, "that I got to bring them back through the Gate. I can keep them in my office," he added. "I have what I need there to figure out what this writing says. General, these are really unique," he said, warming to the subject. "They show evidence of Goa'uld interference in the previous civilization of this planet, and yet—"

General Hammond recognized the signs of scientific geekery in progress. He shut off the projector and hastily said, "Dr. Jackson, I'll expect a preliminary report from you on my desk tomorrow morning. Colonel O'Neill, you're dismissed to check in on Major Carter. Make certain she gets what she needs. Meeting adjourned."

            "Yes, sir." It was what O'Neill was planning to do anyway. They all hustled out of the briefing room leaving the expostulating archeologist explaining his theories to the uncaring blackboard.

*          *          *

            "That's not a cast," O'Neill observed sagely.

            "Very good, Colonel. I'll make a medic out of you yet." Dr. Frasier finished wrapping an ace bandage around Carter's arm, locking in a plastic splint. The shelves beside the stretcher on which Carter sat were well-stocked with supplies, the picture of a clean and well-run medical department in one of the most top-secret installations in the country. The other beds were empty, although ready to receive unwilling occupants, with nasty looking monitors and equipment stationed on convenient stands, ready for use. O'Neill shuddered; he hated the infirmary, and stopping by after every mission was the worst part of this job. Frasier checked Carter's fingertips beneath the splint: good circulation. "If I put Major Carter into a regular cast, I'd just be cutting it off her tomorrow or the day after, once the swelling goes down."

            "Hah! I knew it! Carter, your arm is swollen."

            "Thank you for that update, sir." When Carter got pale, she looked washed out. And right now, sitting on a white-sheeted stretcher, she looked whiter than the sheet, with beads of sweat dotting her hairline. O'Neill filed that picture away for future reference, for the next time he had to fish her out of a cavern. His second in command looked about ready to fall over onto her face. "Janet, I can go home, right? You're not going to insist that I stay here overnight?"

            "Sure. As long as you come back in tomorrow, so I can check your arm. And as long as you take two of these every four hours. They'll help with the pain." Frasier handed over a couple of round white pills, putting the rest into a small labeled envelope for her patient to take with her. Carter gulped them down, putting the glass onto the tray beside the stretcher, and started to get up. "And as long as someone drives you both home and back in the morning."

            "What?"

            "You just took two heavy-duty pain-killers," Dr. Frasier pointed out. "The warning label reads, 'do not operate heavy machinery.' I happen to take that very seriously, Sam. You drive with that much oxycodone in your system, you're going to end up in another cave. This one on Earth."

            "I'll take her home, doc," O'Neill announced. He eyed the offending limb doubtfully. "It's broken, right?"

            "Sprained," Carter objected. "It'll be fine in a day or so."

            Frasier put her hands on her hips. "Anybody want to listen to the doctor? Broken, Sam. Ugly looking x-rays. Minimum six weeks healing time." She clucked in commiseration. "At least you'll be able to catch up on your journal reading. And get some extra calcium in your diet!" she called after the retreating pair.

*          *          *

            There wasn't much room to move in Jackson's office. Somewhere in the center, buried under an avalanche of paper, was a desk. Jackson remembered having one, but couldn't honestly say he remembered what it looked like. Once, several years ago, it had been empty, and then he had moved in. If a spot wasn't covered with paper, then it held an artifact from any of several dozen worlds.

            The periphery of the office wasn't any less cluttered. The bookcases were filled with both books and more artifacts. One 'artifact' was a benevolent looking gnome, hunched over its knees with spectacles perched firmly on its nose. Its own perch on the shelf was less secure: a ragged glue line testified to both its accident-prone position and also its modern local production. It was a gag, perpetrated by a certain colonel who was certain that he could fool a certain archeologist.

            The colonel had been wrong.

            Jackson carefully traced the writing on the artifact that he had designated as PSX-1. It was the smallest of the boulders, but still large enough that even Teal'c had needed help in loading it onto the MALP for transport. It was slightly larger than his head, and lop-sided, with a crevice on the far side. But it was the carving that interested him, the writing that looked so similar to Goa'uld but enough off kilter so as to prevent easy deciphering. O'Neill had initially refused to allow Jackson to transport any through the Gate, grumbling his usual line about Dr. Jackson being a "trouble magnet" and swearing up and down that they'd all regret this decision, but in the end, Jackson had been able to persuade him. It had been a good decision, Jackson realized. Already, here in his office, he'd thought of at least three additional areas of inquiry that would assist in the translation. The computer could do the scut work for him.

            So much for being a 'trouble magnet.' This time it was Samantha Carter who'd been injured, and Jackson hadn't been anywhere near her at the time. Sam had gone exploring further back in the cave where they'd found the artifacts, and fallen down a slippery incline into a deep crevasse. Fortunately it had been late in the third day when it had happened, when the team was ready to return to Earth anyway. One hour and many feet of rope later, that was what they did. Using the rope to haul Sam out of the cave meant that Jackson couldn't lash all the artifacts to the MALP for return to the SGC, but there was always hope that he could persuade General Hammond to mount another expedition to return for them.

            He carried the paper tracing back to his desk, clearing enough room to find the keyboard to the computer. The machine beeped irritably at him, and he peered at it worriedly. The last time it had responded like that was moments before it shut down in a very permanent snit. It had taken Carter several hours to retrieve all the data Jackson had squirreled away on the hard drive, and after that she routinely sent a sergeant to back up his files. Of course, sometimes that little beep just meant that an e-mail message had been received. Jackson looked for the little envelope icon: not there. Not good. Did he dare put his findings onto the excessively complex machine known as a 'computer', or should he just work it out on the green blackboard he stashed in the corner of his office for just such an exercise?

            Using the blackboard meant finding chalk, not necessarily an easy feat. He pawed around in the drawers of the desk, but none was there. He grimaced. Back to the computer. He barely noticed the slight figure that knocked and entered at the lack of a response.

            "Oh, Dr. Jackson. I didn't realize you were in here."

            Jackson looked up, a brief grin making an appearance at the sight of the private. "_Hola, Luis. _Como__ estas?___ Y tu familia, esta bien?"_

            Luis Figueroa swallowed hard, but gamely plunged in. "_Mi familia estoy—"_

            "_Esta," Jackson patiently corrected. "'_Estoy_' is first person. Me. I. How's the wife and kids?"_

            "Dr. Jackson, Spanish has got to be the hardest language there is," Luis groaned. "My kids speak it better than I do. Damn elementary school."

            Jackson shrugged, the grin still lingering. "You're the one who asked to learn it, Luis. Not my fault that your parents didn't teach you as a kid." He cocked his head. "And, actually, Spanish is considered one of the easier languages to learn. Sensible writing, clear grammar. Now you take something like Chinese. Pictographs instead of letters, and over forty different dialects."

            "All right, all right!" Luis echoed the smile on the archeologist's face. "Just give me the _basura_, and let me escape today's lesson." He dumped the trash into his bin, giving the windowsill a cursory swipe with his cloth to remove some of the ever present dust. "What's this, Dr. Jackson?"

            "This?" Luis had indicated the first boulder. "That is my new project. You think Spanish's hard, try figuring out that thing." Jackson rapped on it with his knuckle. "It makes Chinese look like pig latin."

            Luis looked the number one artifact over thoroughly, entranced by the writing carved into bleak granite. "It looks like it almost makes sense."

            "'Almost' being the operative word," Jackson grumbled, attention already back onto the computer screen, tapping in the symbols. "Maybe if I try…" his voice trailed off, his mind already working in other directions.

            The doorway darkened again, this time overflowing with a large quantity of Jaffa. His presence barely registered on Jackson, involved as he was with the translation.

            "DanielJackson. Private Figueroa."

            "Wha-? Oh, Teal'c, I didn't see you standing there. Come in."

            "Colonel O'Neill sent me to inform you that, and I quote, 'I was right, Carter was wrong, it's broken,'" Teal'c recited. He paused to consider. "It is rare that Major Carter is in error. This may be a noteworthy day."

            "Not yet, it's not," Jackson grumbled, not ready to turn his attention away from his new project. "Teal'c, this inscription doesn't make sense! It's just a jumble of letters, not any real language. These are clearly Goa'uld symbols, but just as clearly not words. What are they?" He finally looked up at Teal'c. "Unless it's a subtle Goa'uld plot to drive me mad with frustration."

            Teal'c frowned. "That is doubtful, DanielJackson. The Goa'uld are not known for their subtlety." His attention was caught by the private, who was still staring intently at artifact number one. "Private Figueroa, you appear to be as intent on solving the mystery of the artifact's inscription as Dr. Jackson. Are you likewise interested in ancient languages?"

            "Um?" Luis came back to himself. "What? No, it just looked… well, fascinating. Like I could almost understand it. Like…" His voice trailed off, and he stared at the artifact once again.

            "I sympathize," Jackson said wryly. "Puzzles like these can get to you. Teal'c, look at this phrase with me. It almost looks like '_kree-aug-to_', don't you think?"

            "Possible, but unlikely," Teal'c disagreed. "I also question why an inscription of this antiquity would reference a Jaffa's toenails. I fear you are attempting to make meaning where there is none, friend Daniel. Instead of writing, this may simply be stylized drawings of no particular significance. Perhaps a child drew them in the sand, which then was crushed into the shape of rocks."

            A snort was his only reply.

*          *          *

            O'Neill was enjoying himself immensely. It was rare that he got the chance to make Carter feel this uncomfortable without stepping over the boundaries of military courtesy. It was hard work keeping the grin off of his face. And as for keeping the smirk out of his voice—well, O'Neill had learned long ago never to fight a losing battle.

            "I'm all right, sir," Carter insisted. "You don't have to see me inside. I'm fine."

            "Right. That's why you fell twice getting out to my car, fell asleep on the drive over here, and why you can barely lift your head off of my shoulder."

            "What are the neighbors going to think?" she moaned.

            That was what probably hurt the most, O'Neill reflected: the humiliation. With what Doc Frasier had given her, Carter should be feeling no physical pain. He hugged her a bit closer, saving her from another misstep. "They'll probably think I'm just another one night stand, Carter. How many does that make this week?"

            "Sir!" she wailed.

            "Shut up, Carter," he told her good-naturedly. "I'm joking. Your virtue is safe." He fumbled out her key and inserted it in the lock, getting her inside.

            Carter tried to aim for the sofa. O'Neill intercepted. "Nope. Beddy-bye, Carter. Doctor's orders. You'll feel better in the morning. At which point I'll give you another one of Frasier's miracle pills, and you'll feel much better, though still unable to drive or put two thoughts together."

            "You're enjoying this," Carter accused, trying to cover a cavernous yawn.

            "Damn right, Carter. Not often I get to put one over on my second in command." He eased her onto her bed—frilly night covers, he noted. Carter wasn't all military brat—and helped her off with her shoes. "Where are your jammies?"

            "I sleep in the buff," Carter informed him, discretion eroded under the onslaught of narcotics. She couldn't suppress another yawn, and her pupils were wide enough to drive a MALP through.

            O'Neill swallowed hard. Not the response he was expecting. "Have it your way, Carter," he managed. He was never so grateful that Carter fell asleep on her own bed, fully clothed except for the shoes. He tucked the cover around her, rearranged the sling under her splinted arm, and tiptoed out to seek out a comfortable chair in the living room.

            O'Neill looked up at the ceiling. "That was unique," he remarked to no one in particular.

*          *          *

            "If I possessed enough imagination and creativity," Teal'c commented, "then I would suggest that this phrase here," and he pointed to a spot on artifact number two, "might translate into 'toad that produces a caustic slime with its glands' if one inverted three consonants and added several vowels. However I fail to see the purpose in chiseling these words into an irregular piece of granite. Likewise, this action is not consistent with the behavior of any Goa'uld that I am aware of. I am afraid that you must look elsewhere for the answer to this riddle, DanielJackson."

            Jackson grunted, manipulating the symbols on his computer screen, trying to make sense of the inscription. "You're right. Slime-toads never lived on this planet. I remember some from P24-85S3, but not PSX-1280. Maybe if I try to rotate this…"

            Neither one noticed Luis Figueroa pick up a replica of a Cro-Magnon club from where Jackson had it stashed in the corner. Neither did they see him ease into a swing worthy of DiMaggio.

            Teal'c did see motion out of the corner of his eye, and that was all that saved him. Lightening reflexes flung up his arm, deflecting the club's descent from his skull to his shoulder. The club landed with a heart-sickening crunch. Teal'c ignored the cry that forced itself out of his throat to turn and dodge the next swing, arm hanging limply.

            "Luis! What are you doing?" Jackson hurled himself at the private. He knocked the smaller man off of his feet, but Figueroa was fast. The private tossed Jackson out of the way with an inhuman strength, and grabbed the club again.

            Teal'c barreled against Figueroa, pinning him against the bookcase with his weight. The Jaffa clutched at the club with his good arm, immobilizing the private. Books cascaded down over them.

            Jackson grabbed the phone. "Security! My office! Now! And get a med team down here!" He looked over both combatants, still struggling for control of the club. "Better make that two med teams."

*          *          *

            General Hammond was not best pleased as he strode into the SGC infirmary. Sparks flew from each bootstep, the sound echoing like rapid machine-gun fire. "What in tarnation is going on here?"

            Dr. Frasier glanced up, her petite David unimpressed by General Hammond's Goliath. "I'll thank you to keep your voice down, General. This is an infirmary, not a parade marching ground." And then, to take the sting from her words, she jerked her thumb in the direction of a man strapped to a bed, struggling wildly and shrieking at the top of his lungs. Two guards were standing over him, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the wreck that had been their fellow soldier just an hour ago. "I'm getting enough noise from Private Figueroa as it is."

            Hammond immediately calmed down. "How is he, doctor?"

            Frasier accepted the implicit apology. "Good question. According to Dr. Jackson, Private Figueroa was performing his usual duties when he suddenly went berserk and attacked Teal'c."

            "Anyone who attacked Teal'c would have to be insane," Hammond agreed. "What set him off? Any history of violence? Racial intolerance? I wouldn't think so, not if Figueroa had been assigned to SGC."

            Frasier shook her head. "I pulled his file. Nothing to speak of; a bit as a kid. Figueroa grew up in a more difficult section of town, but he straightened out as soon as he joined the Air Force."

            "He told me the Air Force saved his life," Jackson put in. "Said he would have ended up as a street gang casualty if it weren't for them." Hammond noticed the archeologist perched miserably on a stool in the corner of Frasier's office, and acknowledged his presence. Jackson pushed his glasses further up on his nose. "General, I can't understand this. Luis had just come into my office, and we chatted about his family. He's been trying to learn Spanish, to keep up with his kids learning it in school. He was perfectly normal! This whole thing doesn't make sense. Why would he do this? He attacked Teal'c without warning."

            Frasier recognized the signs of self-flagellation. "This wasn't your fault, Daniel. You couldn't have predicted it, and you couldn't have stopped it. You called Security, and you stopped this whole incident from getting any worse than it is. Let it go."

            "She's right, Dr. Jackson," Hammond agreed. "The thing to do now is question Private Figueroa. Is he able to talk, Dr. Frasier?"

            Frasier sniffed. "Depends on what you mean by 'talk'. He's saying plenty, just doesn't make any sense. It's gibberish."

            Hammond sighed. "This could be a simple case of a soldier losing it under pressure, but in this place I tend to doubt it. Dr. Jackson, are there any artifacts in that office of yours that could do something like this? What about those new ones? I thought we'd disabled all of your souvenirs. You still have something that can make someone go crazy?"

            "Not that I know of." Jackson shook his head. "And I've been working in there a lot recently. Even our last excursion was only a few days, and those artifacts went through three rounds of Carter's equipment before I brought them back. Anything that hit Luis—Private Figueroa—should have had some effect on me first."

            "And he's never shown any aversion to Teal'c?"

            "Nope. Liked the guy. Got me to introduce them when Figueroa was transferred to this base. Thrilled to meet someone from a different planet." Jackson let his shoulders sag. "That's what's so confusing about this whole thing, General. This just isn't Luis."

            "That's what his sergeant said," Hammond agreed. "Dr. Jackson, I'm going to have a team go over your office with a fine tooth comb, see if anything pops up and waves a flag at us. And I want some of the lab boys to take their equipment in there and check for radiation or energy waves of some kind. Are you certain that it wasn't those rocks you hauled back?"

            Jackson smiled weakly. "Artifacts," he corrected automatically. "Already ahead of you, General. I called that fellow that Carter was working with last week, Captain Nwembe, to come and check my place out. He's got several of his people there as we speak. But Sam said they were harmless. Just plain granite with a few impurities, according to her equipment."

            "Good work, Dr. Jackson. I'll make a military strategist out of you yet." Hammond meant it as a compliment. "Dr. Frasier, how is Teal'c?"

            "Lucky to be alive," Frasier returned. "If he hadn't deflected that club, it would have smashed his skull. As it is, his symbiote is repairing a shattered shoulder. He won't be going anywhere for at least a week." A half-smile crossed her face. "Anyone else would require six to eight weeks to heal bone. Knowing Teal'c, he'll be pushing for another mission in five days. I _might let him out in seven."_

            Hammond grinned in turn. "Can't keep a good Jaffa down, doctor? Never mind; I'd like to talk to him as well, see if he has any more insight as to why Figueroa would attack him."

            "Go ahead," Frasier invited. "Maybe you can have better luck at convincing him to stay in bed. _I_ had to threaten him with a zat gun."

            "Taking lessons from Colonel O'Neill, I see." Hammond smirked.

            "No, sir. From you."

*          *          *

            'Gentle Giant' was how Carter had described her new acolyte in the temple of science, and Jackson had had to agree. Captain Nwembe had a nodding acquaintance with seven foot, and Hammond had approved his transfer to SGC with a hope that perhaps this year, just maybe, the friendly game of basketball against the MacAuliffe Air Force Base—with a substantial bet by both commanders—would end up in SGC's favor. And it didn't hurt that the man was truly qualified in his field, and would be even better once the major got him squared away with the Carter Finishing School of Astrophysics.

            Nwembe was thorough. He handed out assignments to each team member, checking that they understood what he wanted, coordinating the effort so that each person had a different chore that would end up in a complete and thorough analysis of the problem at hand. Schmidt took pictures of every nook and cranny of Jackson's torn up office, while Chung monitored for various types of radiation. All in all, there were seven people poking through the books scattered over the floor and picking up the various artifacts that Jackson had collected through his years both at the SGC and before as an archeologist in Egypt. It made for crowded space in the small office, but Nwembe didn't care. His mission was to determine what, if anything, had caused a well-liked member of the SGC support staff to suddenly become, as Lieutenant Schmidt put it, 'stark raving loony-tunes'.

            Besides, Nwembe was looking forward to seeing a certain large and powerful Jaffa take a place as a substantial portion of the offensive line in the next football game against the same MacAuliffe Air Force Base that boasted a stellar basketball team. Teal'c couldn't play if he was damaged, and Nwembe was determined to see that it wouldn't happen again. The basketball game might be next week, but the football game also was only a month away. And there was a side bet that it would take the Jaffa _two_ months to learn that the object of the game was to score goals, not take down the opponents as he had learned from watching American television.

            So Nwembe directed his team with a certain ruthless efficiency, checking out any and all possibilities. Knowing the mission of SGC, he paid special attention to the artifacts that Dr. Jackson had collected, examining them personally and then handing them over to the rest for further testing. He looked over the Goa'uld literary device; it emitted no radiation, and in fact seemed broken and all but worthless. The tablet on the bookshelf likewise seemed harmless. It contained Egyptian hieroglyphics that Nwembe recognized from studying Egyptian as a child growing up in the shadow of the Nile before his parents emigrated to America. Nwembe doubted that anything that originated on Earth could be the culprit. Certainly it wasn't the tacky plastic gnome on the top shelf. Nwembe had a hard time reconciling its presence with the rest of the artifacts.

            Nwembe looked around the office and sighed. There were a lot of artifacts. Those eight boulders alone would take hours to be thoroughly reviewed and tested, and demanded the time since they were the latest acquisition to Dr. Jackson's collection. He sighed again. Better get started.

*          *          *

            Choices, choices. O'Neill couldn't make up his mind. Carter was still sleeping off the doctor's drugs, and probably wouldn't stir until morning. O'Neill had switched on the sports channel, but the only thing on was a soccer game, San Diego versus Philadelphia. Normally O'Neill wasn't into soccer, but on this afternoon with no one else around to pester, he was willing to make an exception. He had poked around Carter's refrigerator and found only rabbit food, so a pizza was on the way.

            Choices, choices. Even if it was soccer, the game still deserved to be seen with a buddy. Teal'c was out of the question. O'Neill could just hear the Jaffa: "I fail to see purpose, Colonel O'Neill, in attempting to kick a ball into a designated zone. While it undoubtedly is effective as an aid to improving endurance, I doubt that the skill of dribbling would be efficacious in producing fear in the hearts of our enemies." And calling Jackson in to watch with him would be a disaster. Anything would lose its appeal after listening to the resident geek archeologist deliver a not-short-enough lecture on the origins of the game through several different cultures both on and off world.

            Choice made. Soccer, pizza, liberate a bottle from Carter's wine cellar (located in the kitchen) since she didn't keep any six-packs around—no, wait, he'd drank the beer up the last time he crashed her gate. And he'd watch the game alone, quietly, drinking himself into just enough of a buzz so that spending the night on Carter's sofa wouldn't be intolerable.

*          *          *

            General Hammond found himself pacing down the hallway with Captain Nwembe at his side. "Find anything, Captain?"

            "Not a thing, sir," Nwembe replied, "but it's early yet. The preliminaries don't show anything, and we're moving on to more sophisticated tests."

            "Well, keep me posted, captain," Hammond told him, pushing open the door to the stairwell. Frasier had been after him again to drop a few pounds, and a flight or two of steps wouldn't hurt a bit.

            "No, sir, I don't think that will be necessary."

            "What?" Hammond turned back to look at Nwembe, astonishment written plain on his face. "What do you mean, captain?"

            "You aren't going to be in a position to be posted on anything." And with that, Captain Nwembe shoved General Hammond down the stairs.

*          *          *

            Daniel Jackson felt guilty, didn't know why he felt guilty, which made him feel even more guilty. Figueroa had fallen into a restless sleep, courtesy of some of Frasier's miracle drugs, only murmuring half-heard phrases every now and again. The private looked deceptively harmless, dark lashes against dark skin, and Jackson found it difficult to reconcile the insane behavior he had witnessed with the respectful and polite man that he called a friend. He wondered what General Hammond would be saying to Figueroa's wife if he couldn't send the man home. And then it would really get ugly.

_Luis, what have you done to yourself?And us?_

Two guards stood off to the side, trying to be inconspicuous and reassuring at the same time. It had taken four of them to force Figueroa into his present configuration, tied to the bed, and no one wanted another scene like that. Frasier, aware of Teal'c resting in the bed two slots over, had insisted on the guards' presence.

            More phrases, murmured under the man's breath. Jackson listened, hoping that there might be some clue to what had set him off.

            Something caught the archeologist's ear, sounded just this side of familiar. Jackson leaned in. "Luis?"

            "_Kree.__ Vamos."_

            Jackson blinked. He couldn't have heard what he just heard. Goa'uld, then Spanish? It didn't make sense. The only Spanish that Luis knew was what Jackson himself had taught him, and Luis clearly had not learned any Goa'uld. Jackson must be hearing things, trying to read something in that wasn't there.

            "_Voy a matarse, sholva.__ Ispaste tra houlagh."_

            Dr. Jackson felt his blood run cold. Again, that mish-mash of Spanish and Goal'uld, threatening Teal'c's life and ending with an insult so vile that Teal'c would have ripped Figueroa's tongue out on the spot if he'd heard it. Jackson glanced involuntarily over at the Jaffa: still sleeping. _Small favors, and all of that_.

            This was taking on dangerous proportions. Spanish he could understand Figueroa speaking. He'd grown up around it, and was trying to learn it better. Luis could have picked up phrases from his childhood that he didn't know that he knew. But Goa'uld? Not that clearly. And the only two who could have taught Luis that particularly disgusting phrase were himself and Teal'c, and Jackson knew that he hadn't and doubted that Teal'c had either. Somehow he didn't see Teal'c using that phrase no matter what the provocation.

            This was something that General Hammond needed to know. There was something on the base that could spell disaster, something Goa'uld-ish that had taken over a member of Stargate personnel. It was a good, albeit terrifying, explanation of Figueroa's irrational behavior. Jackson didn't know how it had gotten in, but he couldn't let this pass. How had Sam put it, so many years ago? They had a foothold situation. Goa'uld had invaded SGC. He rose to go to the phone.

            "Medical alert!" blared out over the loud-speaker. Heads jerked up all over the infirmary and the team, including Frasier, were out the door in a flash.

            It was Hammond.

            Frasier guided the stretcher in through the wide infirmary door moments later. "Prep the OR stat. Get Whittaker in here. Damn trauma surgeon, always on a coffee break." She caught sight of the errant physician. "Whittaker! Scrub, and get a chest tube ready. Neil, fire up the portable x-ray. Karen, type and cross for six—we'll probably need them. Move, people!"

*          *          *

            Carter was still sleeping soundly. O'Neill knew that because he had just checked on her after "stoppage time." It sounded like the soccer game was over, and it had ended one to one. What kind of game was that, one to one? Hadn't they ever heard of overtime, for Pete's sake? He channel-surfed, hunting down something more entertaining than talking heads, and settled on a college football rerun. At least _he_ hadn't seen it before. It looked like it had been played while he was off-world. He reached over to the pizza box, wondering if he ought to save any for Carter.

            Nah.

            He could always order another. But he did want to check in on that archeologist of his, make sure that Jackson wasn't running himself into the ground over those boulders he'd dragged back. Jackson had done it before: gotten so excited over whatever that he literally forgot to eat and sleep. _Sleep? Isn't that what they used to use before caffeine was invented?_ Besides, if Jackson got unreasonable, O'Neill could always sic Teal'c on him. That too had worked, even better than sleep.

            He dragged the phone over to him, punching the talk button.

            Nothing.

            O'Neill tapped it again. Still nothing. No dial tone. He frowned, glancing involuntarily at the window. The sky was dark with autumn's decision to pack it in early this year, but the air was still. No thunderstorms, no winds, nothing that would likely take down a telephone line. And the likelihood of Carter not paying her phone bill was on a par with Apophis asking O'Neill's opinion of the latest fishing lure.

            Well, crap. Something had interfered with phone service. Maybe somebody decided to chop down a telephone pole with their car a couple of neighborhoods over. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in Daniel's office number.

            Nothing again. Out of power.

            Well, crap. That didn't have enough feeling to it, so O'Neill said it out loud. "Crap." And then: "I didn't need to call him anyway." He settled himself into the easy chair, prepared to boo the referee over action that had occurred three days ago. Couldn't do anything else anyways, not without looking like a fool. He could see himself explaining his actions to General Hammond, back at the base: "Well, sir, Carter's phone was out of order, so I naturally assumed that a Goa'uld mother ship had just taken a position over Cheyenne Mountain. After all, Daniel is there, playing with rocks, and everybody knows that he's a magnet for trouble." After everyone finished laughing, they'd assign him a nice padded room next to Napoleon and King Henry VIII. The fat female ones.

            And, outside Carter's home, two shadowy figures took up positions where they could see the man inside. Bare husks of streetlight whispered off long metallic rifle barrels.

*          *          *

            Nwembe paused inside the power station, looking over the controls. He was intimately familiar with them, having done extensive repair work not three weeks earlier, courtesy of an SG-6 mission gone awry. They had brought back—never mind, it was unimportant at the moment. What he was interested in was the main control panel. From there he could shut down all of Stargate Command with the exception of those units with back-up generators. The delightful part of the controls was that by cutting off the power, Nwembe would be sealing the majority of the Stargate Command personnel behind locked doors. It would take them a minimum of eight hours to cut their way out of the bulkheads, by which time it would be all over.

            He checked his watch. It was a hackneyed device, this 'synchronize your watch' sort of effort, but it was necessary for the moment. The start time was scheduled for eight oh three PM. Not before, and not after. The rest of his team would need to be in place for the plan to work effectively.

            Eight oh two.

            Eight oh three.

            Nwembe threw the switch.

*          *          *

            "Make him comfortable," Frasier directed. "Put in one liter D5 Ringer's over the next four hours, then some D5 half saline at a hundred and fifty per hour. Get me a CBC and a set of lytes first thing in the morning, and I'll write for the rest of the drugs. Jen, keep an eye on his respiratory status and call me for any change; I'll be sleeping in the on-call room tonight. We just extubated him, so make that a close eye, right?"

            Jackson watched in morbid fascination as the medical team carefully deposited their mound of flesh onto one of the infirmary beds, transferring wire ends from portable equipment to the bedside permanent fixtures. More beeping floated in the air, a gentle accompaniment to the hustle going on. Some of the tubes had a suspiciously red tint to them.

            Frasier noticed his stare. "Yes, General Hammond is lucky to be alive. I could've sworn that we were going to lose him in surgery, but so far he's with us. Whittaker may be a prima donna surgeon, but he knows which end of a scalpel is up." She nodded at the unconscious general. "What he needs now is a lot of rest and pain-killers."

            "What happened?"

            "He fell down two flights of stairs. He's lucky that he didn't break his neck. I don't know how long he was there before someone found him."

            Another thought intruded. "If Hammond is out of commission, then who's in charge of the base? Janet, we may have a situation here."

            "What do you mean?" Dr. Frasier's eyes narrowed.

            "I mean, look at what's going on here: I just heard Figueroa speak perfect Goa'uld. And when he tried to kill Teal'c earlier, he was shouting '_sholva'. I thought I was hearing things in my office, but just moments ago, before they brought General Hammond in, I heard him speak Goa'uld. Spoke it with a Spanish accent, if you can believe that."_

            "Figueroa doesn't speak Goa'uld."

            "He does now," Jackson replied grimly. "Want to bet that he learned it out of a book?"

            Frasier stared at him, fear in her eyes. "Daniel, do you realize what you're saying?"

            "Yeah. Sam explained the whole scenario to me. Foothold situation. What do we do?"

            Frasier was a doctor, but she'd been through enough military training to be aware of how deadly the base had just become. "In the event of a foothold situation, we lock everything down. General Hammond or a senior officer sets the auto-destruct. We can't afford to let the Goa'uld get onto Earth." She set her jaw grimly. "General Hammond is down."

            "And maybe not by accident."

            "Possibly," Frasier conceded unhappily. "Or maybe not. Colonel O'Neill is next in the chain of command. Call him back in. He took Samantha Carter home. He'll be at her house." She pulled herself together. "Don't go jumping to conclusions, Daniel. Right now we only have a series of events. It may all be coincidence. Hammond fell. Figueroa heard you and Teal'c speaking in Goa'uld, and it's coming out in his delirium. Let's let Colonel O'Neill make the decision to lock down Operation Failsafe."

            Jackson looked at her, arms folded across his chest, eyes haunted. "Do you really believe this is all coincidence, Janet?"

            She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Make the call, Daniel. Right now."

            Jackson hustled into Frasier's office to use her phone, dialing for an outside line. He dialed Carter's number, only to get a 'We're sorry; this line is out of service.' He tried again: same thing. He hadn't dialed wrong. Jackson tried some other numbers: O'Neill's answering machine gave him a suggestion that he didn't think was anatomically possible, and the colonel's cell phone was either turned off, out of juice, or in a dead spot. O'Neill was unreachable, although Jackson did leave an urgent message on O'Neill's home machine in case he called in. Jackson turned to Frasier to update her.

            Things happened.

            The lights went out. Things were pitch black for only a moment, then the infirmary generators kicked in and the machines whirred back into motion with a beeping protest. Bulkhead doors slammed shut, the sound echoing thunderously in the enclosed base. The secondary lights glowed eerily, not really enough wattage to see clearly.

            "Jen, check the equipment. We've got a power failure. Make sure everything's working," Frasier cried out. "Daniel, try the door."

            Jackson pushed at the door, tugging at the knob. A heavy panel, designed to protect the inhabitants of the infirmary against any possible threat, had slid inexorably into place. He pounded on the steel bulkhead, even trying to pry it open. "No good. It's solid. We're locked in." He met her eyes. "Coincidence, Janet?"

*          *          *

            O'Neill reached for the last slice of pizza, wondering if it was more important to reheat it in the microwave or to remain comfortably seated in this chair watching the last quarter. The score was forty-one to three. O'Neill decided he could afford to miss a few minutes of the game. He hoisted himself to his feet.

            Four bullets from a silenced sniper special ripped into Carter's easy chair, right where O'Neill had been sitting. Stuffing fluffed out. O'Neill dropped to the double-pile carpet. The pizza slice landed tomato sauce down, and O'Neill didn't bother to swear. There wasn't time. The comfortable alcoholic buzz he'd been trying for disappeared in a heartbeat.

            "Carter!" he hissed loudly. Surprise had been a potent weapon for whoever was aiming at him, but they had just wasted it on a missed shot. O'Neill was no longer surprised. He was pissed. "Crap! Carter, wake up!" Because he had no doubt that the next set of bullets would be aimed at her sleeping head.

            He scuttled over to his jacket and the revolver that habitually stayed with him, even here on Earth. "Carter!" he hissed again, trying for the balance between waking his second in command and not alerting the assassins outside that they had missed. Now he really regretted not having a working phone, and letting his cell's battery bite the dust. A nice team of SG commando's like SG-4 making best time would've been really welcome right about now. And he wouldn't have felt so stupid for being out of touch. Maybe there really was a Goa'uld mother ship over the skies of Cheyenne Mountain.

            The revolver felt comfortably heavy in his hand. He crawled from cover point to cover point, hiding behind first the sofa, then the chair, and made it safely into Carter's bedroom.

            A long snore echoed, followed by a surprised and groggy snort as he hauled Carter off the bed onto the safe floor. Then a few spicy words that O'Neill hadn't realized that Carter knew flew through the air, much like the four bullets earlier. She clutched her injured wrist.

            "Keep your head down," O'Neill ordered. "We're being shot at."

            Carter added another pungent contribution to the conversation. "Why?"

            "Beats me. You piss off anyone lately?" He looked at her briefly. "Never mind." He didn't think Carter was capable of annoying anyone to this extent, except maybe for a few Goa'uld system lords and some assorted idiots with delusions of grandeur on a few worlds across the galaxy. "I withdraw the question. What do you have for a home arsenal around here?"

            Thinking was still not an easy task. She screwed up her face. "Not much. A couple of steak knives. I suppose I could wire a bomb out of a Molotov cocktail."

            "No time for the fancy stuff," O'Neill told her. "I need to take these guys out, whoever they are. You stay here, and keep your head down. Toss a pillow around every few minutes, make them think that I'm still here. Anybody comes at you, shoot to kill. Understand?"

            She was starting to drift off. Damn pills. Last time he'd listen to Doc Frasier. Come to think of it, he never listened to the doc.

            "Carter!"

            "Yes, sir! Shoot to kill, sir!" Carter jerked herself awake.

            O'Neill stared at her, clearly wondering if he could trust her. _Not much choice, O'Neill. "Watch my six," he finally said, handing her his revolver, and crawled off._

            It only took moments to ascertain that there were only two shooters, one perched sniper-style in a tree in the front yard and the other in the back waiting for them to try to make a break for it. O'Neill waited—too long—for Carter to offer a distraction. The moment he heard the quiet puff of silencers he shoulder-rolled out through the side door and into the bushes, blessing the fact that the last mission had kept Carter from pruning the overgrown forsythia. Not only did it cover his movements, but it smelled good, too. _Covers the acrid scent of fear, don't you know_.

            Once outside, O'Neill was in his element. Covert operations were what he'd done for years, before the Stargate program was more than a twinkle in the DoD's eye. Alone, he could've neutralized this pair without breaking a sweat. But he had Carter to think about, had to remove the assassins before they could get to his second. Not that he didn't trust Carter, but he didn't trust Carter high on Frasier's pills.

            Assassin number one had clearly spent the minimum necessary time in basic training. The dark figure squatted beneath the largest tree in the back yard, right where he'd been taught to sit, weapon resting on a knobby boll to steady the aim. O'Neill wasted a few precious moments making certain that number one didn't have someone watching his backside, then silently slid up behind.

            The assassin's gasp was cut off with his air. O'Neill held him tight for just a bit longer to ensure that Basic Training Protocol Number Six _try _to make your assailant think you're out cold_ wouldn't work. After O'Neill was finished, number one really was out cold. He took a few moments to tie the man up, wondering where he'd seen him before. The face looked familiar. At least the guy was human, not Jaffa or even an Unas._

            That could wait. He heard another quiet puff: more bullets being pumped into Carter's previously well-ordered home. O'Neill always liked crashing Carter's pad. It was always clean without O'Neill having to pick after himself. It offended his sense of what was right in the world for assassins to crash her home in the more literal sense. And blood stains on the deep pile carpet would be intolerable, not to mention picking up the pizza slice he'd dropped when first shot at.

            He moved from shrubbery to bush, sometimes flat on his belly, sometimes chancing a crouched over crawl. O'Neill felt the terrifyingly exuberant feeling of freedom, the sense of going up against an armed gunman and knowing that he would either succeed or die, and nothing in between. The feeling that he had nothing to lose.

            The sniper slithered down from the tree, emboldened by the lack of return fire. This one was a little more creative than the last: he stood next to the tree, using it as both cover and staying in its shadow to hide his own position. He sighted along the barrel, looking for his target inside.

            O'Neill hoped it was a cushion that the man saw. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed something moving inside the window, black on black without lights. He didn't have time to wait.

            He took three steps for a running start and left the ground in a flying tackle. He hit assassin number two at waist level, knocking the gun away and tumbling them both to the ground. O'Neill shoulder-rolled to a combat stance, hands open and ready.

            Assassin number two mimicked him. The gun lay several feet away, a deadly equalizer. O'Neill couldn't let the man get his hands on it. He feinted, trying to draw his opponent out.

            The man refused the bait. He went for a sweep to knock O'Neill's legs out from underneath him. O'Neill jumped, dodging the trick, and lashed out at the man's head. He connected solidly, rocking the assassin back.

            O'Neill pressed his advantage. He grabbed an arm and twisted it into a half-Nelson, grabbing the man's head to lock him in place. "Talk, damn you. Who sent you?"

            The man continued to struggle, foolishly in O'Neill's opinion, since O'Neill had him in an air-tight seal. All O'Neill had to do was squeeze a bit tighter to cut off the air, and the world would be minus one inept assassin.

            But there was something unnervingly familiar about his opponent. O'Neill tried to get a better look.

            "Moravian?" The assassin continued to struggle. "Moravian, what the hell is this? Why are you doing this?"

            Moravian spit out a torrent of what sounded suspiciously like Goa'uld at its finest. Or lowest. Whatever, it was unprintable, O'Neill was sure. His blood ran cold.

            Step one: containment. O'Neill throttled the hapless Moravian into unconsciousness, not certain if there was a better idea. He dragged the pair inside, having to dodge a wide-eyed Carter who nearly blew a hole through his head before she realized who it was.

            "Oh, no, Colonel O'Neill! I'm sorry, sir!"

            "Why don't I take that now, Carter?" O'Neill relieved her of his handgun, refusing her offer of help to get the pair trussed up on her sofa. "They cut your phone line, which is why we couldn't call out for Daniel and Teal'c to join us for more pizza."

            "More pizza?"

            "You slept through the first pie," O'Neill explained. "We'll have the second on the way back to the base. Delivery guy ought to be here any minute; it's been almost forty-five. You up for this? We'll have SG security in an uproar." 

            Carter looked at O'Neill's captives. "Sir, I recognize these men. They're our people, from SGC. This is Moravian, and this is Chung. Both are men assigned to Captain Nwembe, in research."

            "Well, that explains the Goa'uld," O'Neill grunted. He gave the last knot a tug. Chung wouldn't be squirming out of that one.

            "Goa'uld, sir?"

            "Moravian here was spouting a bunch of it right before he decided to take a nap. And I don't think he was learning it at the local community college."

            "Yes, sir." For once, Carter was even slower on the uptake than O'Neill himself. "Why were Chung and Moravian speaking Goa'uld?" 

O'Neill just looked at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. Then he was disappointed; it should have made him feel better than he did right now. He might never get another chance to be smarter than Carter, and right now he was too worried to enjoy it.

            "I'll haul 'em out to the car and stuff 'em in the back seat. You crawl in the front seat and take another nap. I want you fresh for when we arrive at SGC, 'cause I'm really hoping that it'll be an arrival where people are glad to see us and not an invasion of Goa'uld system lords with a phalanx of Jaffa lackeys that we have to contend with."

*          *          *

            "Dr. Frasier? Dr. Frasier? Are you all right in there?" Someone banged on the door to the infirmary, which had automatically slammed shut when the power went out. "It's Pedersen. All you all right?"

            "Pedersen!" Jackson and one of the guards watching Figueroa went to the door to help pry it open. Frasier stayed with her patients, machines still beeping with endless regularity. "How did you get past the bulkheads? Is everyone all right? What's going on out there?"

            "Chaos," Pedersen returned through the three inches, grunting as he tried to spread the bulkhead further to allow entrance. "Power's out—as if you didn't know—we're cut off from the outside world, and nobody's in command. Man, what a time for Hammond to be down and out. Is he even alive? It's gonna take us days to get this mess straightened out. Anybody find Colonel O'Neill?"

            "Not by phone," Jackson returned. "His cell's dead, and something's blocking the line to Carter's place. Hammond's alive, but Frasier's plenty worried." He shoved harder at the door. "No Goa'uld out there, making an invasion? Anyone coming through the Stargate?"

            Pedersen stared at him, then burst into laughter. "Not a chance, Dr. J! You thinking another foothold situation? Not gonna happen, not with all the security we got on the Stargate. We already got a team at the Gate, armed with miniature cannons and flashlights. Nothing's getting through that Gate, not until we get this power thing settled." He finally was able to squeeze inside, the massive bulkheads making it a tight fit for his ample shoulders. "Geez, Marino, will you point that thing somewhere else? I just rescued your asses from Doc Frasier here. I'll bet she was ready to shoot you guys up with vitamins, or something. How's the general?"

            Everyone automatically looked at the still sleeping figure lying on a narrow hospital bed, hooked up to many beeping boxes.

            Pedersen chose that moment to bring up his own rifle. Two quick shots, and both of Figueroa's guards went down. A third shot, and Dr. Frasier screamed. 

            Jackson grabbed at the gun, but Pedersen was stronger than the archeologist. They wrestled for possession, Pedersen throwing Jackson back and forth like a terrier with a rat, trying to regain control over the weapon. Pedersen slammed Jackson into the wall. Jackson grunted, but refused to let go. He head-butted Pedersen as he'd seen both O'Neill and Teal'c do—_damn, that hurt!_—and staggered the man.

            Pedersen quickly regained his footing, and swung Jackson against one of the beds—it was Teal'c's—leaning him back and off balance. Jackson could feel the solid muscle mass of Teal'c's body underneath him, and wished heartily for some of the muscle mass to be in action right now. It would be most welcome. Slowly, inexorably, the business end of Pedersen's handgun swung toward Jackson's temples, and all Jackson could think was _not the glasses! They're my last pair!_

            Next thing he knew, a long and strong dark arm flew past his ear to land squarely between Pedersen's eyes. Pedersen dropped instantly. The gun clattered to the floor.

            "Teal'c!" Jackson exclaimed.  

            Teal'c sat up, and surveyed the carnage with serenity, steadying his bad shoulder with the good arm that had just saved Jackson's last pair of spectacles. Hammond was snoring gently in the next bed, the monitors still quietly chattering to themselves. Figueroa also slept, muttering Goa'uld and Spanish curses, and his two guards were down and moaning, each clutching a bullet wound that, while not immediately lethal, would keep them from action. Frasier too was trying to staunch the flow of blood from a hole in her shoulder, pretending it didn't hurt as much as it did. "It appears, DanielJackson, that we have a situation."

*          *          *

            Nwembe looked at his watch. Four hours. Moravian and Chung should have reported back by now, letting him know of their success in eliminating both O'Neill and Carter. Neither one had called in, therefore it was reasonable to assume that they had failed in their mission. Likewise, Pederson was unreachable, as was Figueroa. Of the remaining three, Murphy was attempting to shoot through the infirmary door at any of the eight occupants, since two of the octet were primary targets and another two were secondary. Lee was positioned at the entrance to Cheyenne Mountain, deflecting any outside interference. Schmidt was guarding the armory; any counter-attack would begin there.

            Jackson worried Nwembe. The archeologist had not been seen since Murphy arrived at the infirmary after Pedersen's abortive attempt to assassinate the SG-1 team members, and Murphy was unable to verify Jackson's presence inside with the Jaffa and General Hammond. It was possible that the archeologist had escaped during the interval between when Pedersen had failed and Murphy arrived to replace him. Therefore the guard on the armory was necessary, in order to prevent Jackson from arming both himself and the Jaffa. The Jaffa had been injured in Figueroa's original unanticipated attack, but was still a threat to be reckoned with. Nwembe did not intend to underestimate Teal'c.

Nor did he intend to underestimate the archeologist. Jackson had proven himself a wily player in the game of system lord survival. Nwembe hustled down to Jackson's office to check on the artifacts. It was certainly there that Dr. Jackson would try to access the outside world and contact the authorities for immediate assistance. Consider the personality of the man, and that would drive any plans. Dr. Jackson would first attempt to get to the armory for weapons and then, finding it unassailable with Schmidt guarding the entrance, would head to the most familiar spot in the Command base in order to call for help. 

Nwembe took a moment to review his strategy, the little voice inside his mind that was the real Nwembe screaming silently in horror. Goa'uld-Nwembe examined the mission as a whole: Stargate Command was unconquerable by conventional means, so if he and his team could excise the individuals who had made it so, the rest of the base would fall in short order. Once the base was theirs, the Stargate could be opened to allow the Jaffa to invade in force. A fool-proof plan, as long as the first step could be successfully accomplished.

To eliminate the essential personnel, determine the probably behavior of each, and attack when they weren't expecting it. Look at both Teal'c, and General Hammond. Those attacks had been unanticipated and successful, though not lethal. Those errors would be rectified.

            Somewhere inside him Nwembe knew what he was doing was wrong, that it went against everything that the captain stood for. But that little voice seemed powerless against the force that was driving him.

            Nwembe checked the artifacts one last time before leaving Jackson's office. The artifacts had each grown a crystal since possessing a Tau're. There was no need for subtlety any longer, and the overt crystal could control these bodies with greater efficiency. Even the little Nwembe inside who no longer controlled his own actions appreciated efficiency. Goa'uld-Nwembe wished that more of the snare-crystals had been transferred through the Stargate to the Tau're base, but one had to make do with what one had. Eight had been brought through, and eight would have to be enough to dispatch the SG-1 team as well as Hammond and Frasier.

            It was important to find Dr. Jackson. He was a target, and now he was the only one capable of leaving the base to alert the authorities. If more personnel were activated, the probability of success in eliminating the target Tau're would be significantly reduced and plans for a Goa'uld invasion scrapped.

            Review of Dr. Jackson's personality profile suggested that the archeologist, finding the phone system all over SGC to be inoperative, would then attempt to escape Cheyenne Mountain and search out both Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter. Since a motor vehicle would be essential to get anywhere away from the mountain in any reasonable amount of time, Nwembe assumed that Jackson would eventually go to the parking lot to fetch either his or another car.

            The plan was set. Nwembe headed for the entrance, and the parking lot, of Cheyenne Mountain.

*          *          *

            "Get to a working phone," Jackson chanted silently to himself. "Get to a working phone."

            For it was clear that Stargate Command was under attack; the foothold scenario had become a reality. The majority of the base personnel were trapped behind thick bulkheads. To rely upon their help would be courting disaster. Several people had been taken over somehow by Goa'uld forces. Frasier, arm in a sling, had determined that while Pedersen and Figueroa were under Goa'uld influence and spouting what both Teal'c and Jackson assured her were Goa'uld curses, neither one hosted a parasite. Figuring out what horror was driving them would require more equipment than she had at her disposal, so Jackson had helped tie Pedersen down with the same type of restraints that kept Figueroa under control. It seemed the only way to keep everyone safe.

            "You must contact Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter," Teal'c had told Jackson in no uncertain terms. "Neither I nor Privates Marino and Green are capable of making this journey." The Jaffa had hefted the gun that he had liberated from Pedersen. "I will defend the infirmary until you return. If the armory is accessible, fetch weapons. My staff weapon would be most welcome. If that is not feasible, then contact O'Neill by any means possible, by telephone or in person. You must not fail. You must not chance being apprehended." Then he favored Jackson with a very concerned look. "Do not get caught, DanielJackson. They will not let you live."

            Great. No second chances. Point in the good guys' favor, Jackson decided, was that there didn't seem to be many people taken over by the Goa'uld. The hallways were all but bare. Stargate personnel were still trapped behind the bulkheads on the lower levels, but Jackson was mindful of Teal'c's instructions not to try to contact them. The bulkheads would take too long to breach to hope for a rescue by the rest of the base. Jackson had tried to swing by the armory, but he spotted someone on guard there, watching, automatic weaponry at ready. 

Was the guard part of the good guys, or Goa'uld-possessed? Jackson couldn't tell for certain, but the man seemed too calm to be on Jackson's side. Any member of SGC would be nervous and trigger-happy, and loudly phoning for help. Jackson prudently decided against a frontal assault on the armory. Time to put Teal'c's next set of instructions into action: get hold of Jack O'Neill.

            Next stop: his own office. It wasn't considered a high risk area, and Jackson hoped that his phone was still in working condition even if the power was not. If the landline phone was dead, his cell phone was in his jacket pocket, the jacket hanging from the coat tree in the corner, next to shepherd's crook from PSG-3764. Piece of cake.

            He headed for his office, walking as quietly as he could, pausing at the corners to be certain that he wouldn't be walking into an ambush in the next hallway. All the time, his mind was worrying at the problem: how had the Goa'uld managed to infiltrate? The most obvious, through the StarGate, hadn't happened. Not unless the Goa'uld had mastered not only invisibility but using the Gate without the giant blue flush, as O'Neill so delicately put it.

            All right, what objects had recently come through the Gate? It had to have been those artifacts with the not-Goa'uld writing on them. But that too didn't make sense: the SG-1 team had handled them the most, and they all were unaffected. Figueroa was the first, and it had happened right after Figueroa looked at the boulder closely. Why Figueroa and not Jackson himself?

            It was one of those inspired moments. Eureka. Aha. _Voile_. The electrifying knowledge jolted through him with the certainty of a prophet. And then settled into the pit of his stomach like a bleeding ulcer.

            The artifacts had been a trap.

            The writing was, in fact, Goa'uld. At least, the letters were. The reason that the words made no sense was because they weren't words. They were merely a jumbled collection of letters designed to intrigue one very gullible and trusting archeologist. An archeologist/trouble magnet who had toted eight large boulders home with a deadly Goa'uld device inside.

            The plan made sense, in a Goa'uld-ian sort of way. There was no possible chance for the Goa'uld to attack the base directly, so they resorted to subterfuge. Not a particularly Goa'uld-ish type of plot, but there was always a system lord or two willing to go out on a limb. If it succeeded, then the system lord could take credit for his or her cleverness. If it failed, then the system lord could disavow any knowledge, etc., and blame a hapless underling.

            No, Jackson realized, it wasn't the base itself that was under attack. Not yet; that was step two. Even now the Stargate control room was heavily guarded, impervious to an assault from beyond the Gate. The bulkheads that trapped the rest of base also enclosed the Stargate room as well, now swarming with highly annoyed, not to mention motivated, Stargate military personnel. Eight people would never be able to take over the Stargate to let Goa'uld troops through. No, this was something even more insidious.

            The artifacts had assembled a team of eight to eliminate those that the Goa'uld hated the most: the SG-1 team.

            Now _that_ made Goa'uld-ish sense. If the system lords could kill those most responsible for repelling the invading forces, they could diminish the base's effectiveness dramatically. Goa'uld culture valued individuality in its people (though not its Jaffa followers) and the success or failure of a mission was usually the result of an individual's ability to perform. Any Goa'uld would believe that the success of Earth's Stargate program was the result of a few, rather than the teamwork that Earth people valued.

            Teal'c had been the first. Figueroa had been taken over by the artifact when he had entered Jackson's office, and had attacked the Jaffa. It was only sheer luck, and Jaffa training, that had allowed Teal'c to dodge the lethal blow.

            But how had Pedersen been affected? Of course: Pedersen was Security, and one of the first on the scene when Jackson had called for help. Okay, that left six more people roaming the base and inflicting damage, assuming that each artifact contained a Goa'uld mind control device. Who were they? Probably the man outside the armory for one. Jackson didn't know his name. Who else? Who would have been through Jackson's office at the right time?

            It became even more important for Jackson to return to his office, before the rest of the eight affected realized what he knew. Maybe he could find a way to neutralize whatever device the Goa'uld had stuck in the artifacts.

            No, wait. It couldn't be the artifacts. Nwembe and his crew had checked them out. And Carter had done the same before ever leaving PSX-1280.

            Yes it could, Jackson realized. The artifacts had been dormant until they were brought through the Gate. Then they activated themselves just in time to affect Figueroa. Jackson himself wouldn't have been affected; he was one of the targets. And Nwembe's crew were the next hapless victims on the scene. If Nwembe and his team had been affected, they would have been able to roam the base without challenge for hours, setting up the power outage and attacking General Hammond. Taking out the general would be the perfect cover for setting up the rest of the base as a giant booby trap for SG-1. It was only sheer luck that O'Neill was off the base with Carter when the Goa'uld artifact-device went into action, screwing up the Goa'uld plan from the start.

            All right, the teams were defined: SG-1 on the good guys' side, and Nwembe and his team possessed by evil Goa'uld devices turning them into the bad guys. And right now the bad guys were winning; they had control of the base. 

If Jackson could get hold of O'Neill, the colonel would be able to come up with a plan to retake SGC. Then Carter could figure out a way to restore Nwembe et al back to normal, and the crisis would be averted. That was how it always worked, wasn't it? And for once, Jackson wasn't on the whumping list: Teal'c was down, Hammond was down, even Frasier was trying to patch herself up. But Jackson himself was unharmed. All he had to do was get hold of O'Neill and keep clear until the crisis was over.

            He made it to his office without anyone seeing him. There was a close call; Nwembe himself strode briskly away from Jackson's office just before Jackson darted back out of sight. But Jackson finally found himself inside his own office, shuddering like a leaf but safe. For the moment.

            First things first. He tried his phone: dead. Not surprising; Jackson's office was not on the emergency generator list, and the instrument was deep inside a mountain connected by who knew how many wires to get to an outside line. If Jackson had been directing this assault one of his first actions would have been to completely cut off the base from the outside world and help.

            Not a problem. Jackson went next for his cell phone, clipped onto the pocket of his jacket. He pulled it out, and thumbed the buttons.

            Nothing. The battery had given out. Jackson said a bad word in Goa'uld, that language being particularly suited to cursing.

            Get to O'Neill, Teal'c had said. Okay, Jackson relied on the Jaffa for strategy. As an archeologist, Jackson was better suited to examining cultural mores than plotting to retake a command base. So Jackson was determined to do as Teal'c said.

            The front door was not an option. Goa'uld-possessed Nwembe would have certainly blocked that route. But Teal'c had told him of an airshaft that opened up not too far from the entrance to Cheyenne Mountain. From there he could get to his car—yes, the keys were in his jacket pocket—and drive to Carter's place to fetch the two military types.

            He glanced at the offending artifacts, and stared. Each one had grown a long and vicious looking crystal. They looked like the crystals that the Goa'uld used to power their ships and other devices. If ever Jackson needed proof that the Goa'uld were involved, here it was. Clearly these were the objects that were taking over members of the SGC. Why hadn't Carter's toys discovered them before SG-1 had hauled the artifacts back through the Gate? Jackson didn't know, and the answer to that problem was secondary at the moment. Carter could figure that one out later. Assuming there was a 'later'.

            He didn't have much time. Nwembe could return at any moment. He gathered up the crystals, thrusting them into a bag and shoving them into his pocket, and hustled out towards fresh air.

*          *          *

            "Carter, you awake? Carter?"

            "Umm? Wha-?" Carter jerked herself upright. "I'm awake, sir." She glanced back at the two Stargate personnel still sleeping soundly in the back seat. Both sets of hands were bound uncomfortably behind them, but it didn't seem to make a difference. "They're still out, sir. Have you been able to contact the base?"

            "No, Carter, that's what I want you to do," O'Neill said, trying to be patient, putting the car into a left hand turn just ahead of the red light. He handed her the cell phone that was still in his pocket. "See if you can get hold of General Hammond."

            "The phone is dead. You didn't recharge the battery."

            "I know that, Carter. You're the mechanical genius around here. Fix it. Power it up from a piece of tinfoil. Do something, Carter. Get me General Hammond."

            "Yes, sir." She rummaged in his glove compartment, and pulled out a long black cord still wrapped in plastic.

            "What's that?"

            "It's a car accessory device for your cell phone. I got it for you last Christmas; don't you remember? I'm going to power your phone from the car battery."

            "Oh." O'Neill tried not to feel embarrassed.

            "Sir, do you carry a pocket knife? This plastic is kind of hard to get through with one hand." Carter held up her injured wrist, still encased in a splint.

            That he had. Carter hooked up the cell phone to the cigarette lighter, and dialed. "No answer, sir. Both General Hammond's personal line and the main phone to reception just ring, and nobody picks up."

            "Hmm." Lots of paranoid little thoughts were running through his head, and O'Neill didn't like any of them. They all ended up with, 'and the Goa'uld lived happily ever after.' "I'm thinking that maybe knocking on the front door isn't such a swift idea, Carter. You?"

            "Right with you, sir."

            O'Neill chanced a look at his second in command. She looked more in charge of herself; Frasier's drugs were wearing off. Of course, there was still the broken wrist to contend with, but O'Neill had faith in Carter. She would come through for him.

            Another thought hit. "Carter, maybe they tried to call me at home, before it hit the fan. Get the remote access to my answering machine." He gave her the code. "How many messages?"

            "Three, sir." Carter listened, and gave him the gist of the messages. "You've won a free trip to Orlando, Florida."

            "Great. Only have to pay for food, beer, and a trip to see the killer whale, what's his name."

            "Second message: a survey company wants your opinion—and your donation—to a non-profit organization dedicated to sending a man to Mars. They believe that Man's destiny is to escape to the stars—"

            "Erase it, Carter. What's the third?"

            "It's Daniel, sir," she said after a moment. "Sir, you were right. Somebody on the base attacked Teal'c. Sir, General Hammond's been hurt! They need you at SGC right away."

            "Crap." It seemed appropriate. And summarized his feelings all in a single expletive. "Any more than that? The base under attack? Somebody blow up something? Mother ship in orbit? Details would be a good thing, Carter."

            "No, sir, that's all. Daniel sounded pretty upset. No details."

            "Make sure your seatbelt's buckled, Carter." O'Neill pushed down on the pedal, and the engines responded with a roar. "We're not going to take our time with this. I've got a bad feeling," he added unnecessarily.

*          *          *

            Frasier sidled up to Teal'c, who had stationed himself alongside the infirmary door so that he could survey the corridor outside the partially opened bulkhead. He held Pedersen's gun in his good hand, ready to fire should there be the need. There had been no movement in the last half hour, although Teal'c could still hear Murphy breathing down the hallway. Murphy couldn't get in, but neither could Teal'c and any of the others get out. Figueroa had awakened, and Frasier had sedated him again, and, for good measure, added a bit more to Pedersen to keep him under easy control as well. None of the Stargate personnel in the infirmary were in any condition to do battle against Figueroa and Pedersen or any other human taken over by the Goa'uld, and taking Teal'c away from his post at the door to subdue them would be an invitation to Murphy waiting in the wings. Frasier had wrapped some gauze around her own arm, though red was seeping through. She kept it close to her side, cradling it in her right.

            "Anything?" she asked.

            Teal'c favored her with a glance. "Nothing, Dr. Frasier. Though I would not expect anything this soon. Hopefully by now DanielJackson has reached his office and been able to contact Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter on the telephone." He looked thoughtfully back through the corridor. "If he is successful in that endeavor, there is always the possibility that DanielJackson will return and assault Private Murphy from the rear. That would strengthen our position considerably. Should Private Murphy be distracted by such an action, I could undoubtedly overpower him."

            "I'll say," Frasier grunted. "How are you holding up?"

            "I am well. My symbiote is endeavoring to heal my shoulder, though I do not expect it to complete the repairs for another one to two hours." Teal'c paused to listen once again, then continued. "And General Hammond?"

            "Holding his own," Frasier reported, "although I'm worried about that lung that he punctured. Teal'c, even if you do overpower Private Murphy out there, we can't move the general without killing him. We don't dare leave the infirmary. At least, not Hammond. And that means me, too."

            "I understand, Dr. Frasier." Teal'c kept his gaze on the corridor. "We shall endeavor to withstand the siege."

*          *          *

            Dr. Jackson took a moment to stretch. It had been a tight fit, squirming up through the air ducts to a site not far from the entrance to the Cheyenne Mountain base. It had been a long journey, fraught with terror that Nwembe or one of his crew would catch him. But he had made it, and all eight crystals from the artifacts had gone with him.

            "Get to a working phone," he repeated to himself once again. The nearest working phone was in town in Carter's house, and to get there Jackson would need a car. His own was in the parking garage, and the keys in his pocket. It was dark, closing in on midnight, which suited him just fine; it would only help him. He would liberate his car from the parking garage and drive straight to Carter's place. Hopefully it was only a windstorm that had broken the phone connection to Carter's house. Jackson hadn't forgotten his earlier inability to call her home before the power had been cut to the base. And, bottom line, he was worried about both Carter and O'Neill. There were eight artifacts, and Jackson had only seen Figueroa, Pederson, Nwembe, and the man at the armory. That left four more that Jackson didn't know about. He really hoped that they were on the base, and not going after the unsuspecting other two SG-1 team members.

            The darkness helped. Jackson tried to remember everything he'd learned from both O'Neill and Teal'c about sneaking around in the dark. There was rather a lot of it, and it seemed to work because no one approached him. He slipped his key into the car door lock, wincing at the sound of the anti-theft device. Still not a sound, no one coming around to see what the noise was, although he suspected they would as soon as he started the engine. He wished he'd taken the time to get it tuned up last time he was off the base. Waiting for the engine to warm up was not going to help.

            But still no one was there. It was only as he pulled out of the parking space that the lights flared on.

            "Oops," Jackson said, trying for O'Neill-like nonchalance, "busted." He didn't dare floor it for fear the little engine would flood, but he did make best time, pushing all four cylinders to their shrieking limit. At the moment he wished that he had given in to car lust, and bought the faster model on the market. He wished that he had the keys to O'Neill's car, tuned to within an inch of its life and able to routinely outrun the fastest of state troopers. He wished that he knew how to hotwire a car so that he didn't need O'Neill's keys.

            _If wishes were horses…___

            And he wished even harder when a large black sedan pulled out behind him.

            "Large black sedan," he muttered. "Isn't that a little trite?"

            Cliché or not, the sedan had a powerful eight cylinder under its hood and, Jackson suspected, a better driver. Jackson made time around the corners of the parking arena, his little Euro model taking the curves better, but once on the straightaway toward town the black sedan crept up on him like a shark looking over its prey.

            Jackson immediately starting wishing for a miracle, something like a nice state trooper armed with a really big handgun or perhaps even a convoy of trucks bringing supplies to the base. At midnight, the probability of a convoy hovered between slim and none, and the troopers tended to leave the base alone. Nice guys that they were, they were reluctant to hand out tickets to the soldiers on leave, and it was easier not to hand out tickets if you didn't patrol the base access road. Right now Jackson would give plenty to see a pair of dark sunglasses behind a blinking red light with a siren snarling, "pull over".

            Okay, by now he was flooring it. The engine was warm, the road was straight, and the speedometer was hitting one hundred. Unfortunately, the one hundred was on the kilometer side. Sixty was a bit wanting on the miles per hour side.

            It was time for strategy, also known as basic life-saving techniques. There were three curves coming up, each of which had a side that dropped off into sheer nothingness. It was the one part of coming to work at Cheyenne Mountain that Jackson despised. He never had a head for heights, and looking down over the cliffs was something he'd trained himself not to do.

            Jackson swerved to the center of the road, so that the sedan couldn't pass him or come alongside. He took the first curve as fast as he could, and congratulated himself on making it around successfully, even pulling away two car lengths when the sedan had to slow down to keep from going off the edge itself.

            The second curve didn't go as smoothly. The driver of the black sedan was ready for him, and tried to edge past him. Jackson jerked his own car in front of the sedan desperately, and ended up getting bumped from the rear for his trouble. He took the curve on two wheels, heart in his mouth, and pulled the car back onto the pavement. A cloud of dust fell over the guard rail at the edge, and Jackson didn't watch. As long as he wasn't going with it, he had more important things to worry about.

            One more curve, and the homestretch was all it would take. Maybe he had a chance to get there in one piece? Jackson almost looked forward to the sinewy piece of tarmac with the token guard rail. It would slow the sedan down, and Jackson would need all the head start he could muster for the final race to town. Jackson swerved to keep the sedan behind him. He headed for the curve at top speed, waiting until the last moment to touch the brake to keep at least two wheels on the road.

            The sedan roared up behind him—and didn't stop. It slammed into his back end and shoved the small car through the guard rail. Jackson's car careened off the road and into the air, doing a flip and a half with two bounces on the cliff face.

            Two final thoughts jumped into Jackson's mind: one, the cliff wasn't as tall as he'd originally thought and two, there was a river below. No, there was a third thought—after all he'd been through, he actually would get to die on good old Earth. Strange how things worked out.

*          *          *

            Nwembe brought the sedan to a screeching halt just inches away from jumping through the hole in the now damaged guard rail. He was a careful man and that set well with the controlling Goa'uld device; he got out of the sedan to peer over the edge, needing to be certain of Jackson's demise. There he saw Jackson's car sinking swiftly into the cold river, front first and trunk sticking up in the air. He saw a figure in the front seat of the car, not moving.

            Nwembe considered. Then he opened his own cell phone, with a recently charged battery, and contacted Schmidt. 

            "No. Moravian and Chung have not yet checked in."

            "It is likely that they have failed. Take Lee and stand guard at the main entrance. When O'Neill and Carter arrive, as I have no doubt they will, shoot them. I believe I have succeeded with Dr. Jackson. He is dead."

            "That is within mission parameters. But, Nwembe," Schmidt stopped him. "I checked Dr. Jackson's office again, as you instructed. The crystals are gone."

            "Gone?"

            "Yes. All eight were removed from the fake artifacts."

            "Then Dr. Jackson has them," Nwembe realized. "We must recover them immediately. I will remain here and find them. They may be in the car, or they may be on Jackson's body. Either way, I will have them in my possession once again." He returned to the sedan and turned it around to head for the base of the cliff. There were picnic tables there, and a dirt-covered parking area. It wouldn't be hard to get there, and would not arouse suspicion. The roads were roundabout, but Nwembe had plenty of time. It was only an hour or so after midnight. Darkness would not lift until at least seven o'clock in the morning, and even then Nwembe doubted that he would be bothered by many picnickers. Autumn had turned the air too cold for comfort.

*          *          *

            "Wake up, Carter."

            "I'm awake!" 

            "Right." O'Neill headed into the first curve before the final straightaway to Cheyenne Mountain. "Looks like somebody took out the guard rail. Again." He frowned. "That wasn't there yesterday. Hope that wasn't one of our people that did that."

            "It looks fresh," Carter said, dismayed.

            "It'll have to wait, Carter. We've got more important problems ahead." O'Neill took the curve faster than he should. But he kept all four wheels on the pavement, not even thinking about the quality of the car that allowed him to pull such stunts.

*          *          *

            "How much ammunition do they have?" Frasier asked, trying to keep the despair out of her voice.

            "They have access to the armory," Teal'c returned. "We are fortunate that they have not yet brought up the laser cannons, or explosives. They appear intent on using small weaponry."

            "Big enough," Frasier grumbled, swaying. 

            Teal'c allowed his attention to be draw away from the door long enough to ease the woman to the floor. "You should rest, Doctor Frasier. You too have been injured."

            "Hammond needs care," Frasier objected.

            "You have spent the last hour ministering to him, and to Privates Marino and Green. It will do General Hammond no good if you wear yourself out too much to perform your duties."

            Marino spoke up. "Ma'am, he's right. You need to rest, too." He struggled to his feet, grabbing on to the nearest table to balance himself—it had been his knee that Pedersen had shot—and limped over to them. "Teal'c, I can't run very far or very fast, but I can stand guard. Take a break."

            Teal'c considered the private's condition thoughtfully. "You are capable of standing guard?"

            "As long as it doesn't involve the fifty yard dash."

            "I see you are studying Colonel O'Neill's practice of amusing and nonessential declarations. However, this is fortunate, and suggests a plan for extricating ourselves from this situation."

            "I thought we were going to wait for Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter," Frasier objected. 

            "I believe this will be the better option and, indeed, the only one should Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter be unable to assist us." Teal'c paused. "Do not you humans have a saying: 'The Lord helps those who help themselves'?"

            "And Lord help those who get caught helping themselves," Marino muttered, very quietly.

*          *          *

            "All right, Carter, there's two of 'em." O'Neill returned from his scouting trip. "And that's all that I could find. Think you can snipe one of 'em with a busted wing, while I get the other?"

            "Sir, we can't do that," Carter objected. "They're—"

            "Carter, those two are part of whoever—or whatever—took over the base. We can do what we damn well please!"

            "Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean—sir, those are our own people down there! We can't just shoot them!"

            "What are you talking about, Carter?"

            "Sir, those are Lt. Schmidt and Corporal Lee. They're two of Captain Nwembe's men. I met them a few weeks ago when I was working with Capt. Nwembe." She handed him the binoculars. "See for yourself."

            "I've already seen them, up close and personal," O'Neill grumbled, acknowledging her recognition. "Damn. This makes things tough. I can see someone getting pissed if I shoot them." Then he brightened. "Think maybe they sold out to the Russians? Not the Goa'uld?"

            "Sir, the Russians are now our allies."

            "Some allies. Can't trust 'em. How about a terrorist group? They could've sold out to a terrorist group."

            "Sir, you have a zat gun in your trunk," Carter reminded him.

            O'Neill glared at her. "You take all the fun out of life, you know that, Carter?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Wait here. You're my back-up." He handed her the P-90 and went to do his job. His non-lethal job. Grumbling.

*          *          *

            Teal'c was annoyed. There was nothing wrong with his memory. He had studied the layout of Stargate Command, including any avenue for escape or attack, and knew both the hallways and the behind the wall air ducts intimately. He had even directed DanielJackson to the nearest egress through the afore-mentioned air ducts. But the sealing of the bulkheads around the infirmary had disrupted that pattern, and he found himself needing to make many detours to get to where he wished to be. He would still arrive at his destination, though it would be many minutes later than he had anticipated.

            He flexed his shoulder. Not yet completely healed—he had lied to Dr. Frasier, and regretted the necessity—but sufficiently usable that it would not delay him unduly. And, as Colonel O'Neill was fond of saying, failure was not an option.

            He stood along the corridor, two turns away from the infirmary, and listened. He listened for the sound of breathing, for the click of the automatic machine gun that Murphy carried. He was able to estimate Murphy's position along the next corridor, and how long it would take the Jaffa to arrive at that position.

            For a big man, Teal'c was astoundingly quiet. Nothing betrayed him as he crept silently but swiftly up behind Private Murphy.

            "Private Murphy."

            Murphy swung around in surprise, gun swinging up to bear. Teal'c delivered a single, solid punch that knocked the man out cold, and rescued the weapon before it could clatter to the ground.

            Teal'c eyed Murphy for one moment longer, to be certain that the man would provide no more distractions. "It is safe," he called out. "You may open the door."

*          *          *

            Nwembe removed his shoes and walked into the cold Cheyenne River. The body's original voice objected as loudly as it could, but the result was unsuccessful. The controlling Goa'uld crystal directed the body to ignore the risks of immersion in the chilly water and explore the interior of the sunken car. It was imperative that the crystals be recovered, so that Nwembe and his team could continue with their mission to assassinate the SG- 1 team. When that had been accomplished, the surviving Goa'uld controlled humans would attempt to open the Stargate for Goa'uld incursions. The success of that part of the mission was less likely, but that wouldn't stop the crystal-devices from trying.

            So the mission drove Nwembe into the river. When he had waded far enough he surface-dove in the general direction of Jackson's submerged car. He surfaced long enough to take a deep breath, and then plunged down to examine the vehicle.

            The results were not encouraging. The body of Daniel Jackson was missing; Nwembe would not be able to verify the death of the human. And of the crystals, there was nothing to be seen. Nwembe thoroughly searched the ruined and waterlogged car, surfacing twice to replenish his air, and found nothing.

            The body ran out of oxygen yet again, and Nwembe surfaced. There was nothing further to be gained from remaining with the vehicle. He hadn't much time. He must recover the crystals as quickly as possible, to prevent the Tau're from learning just how to reverse the effect of those crystals on these bodies and restore the men to normal. That would destroy any chance of success.

            He looked around him. It was difficult to see in the dark, and there was little moonlight to aid him. He focused on one object, only to decide that it was a tree. So was another, with a rock sticking up out of the water toward one side.

            Nwembe looked again at the first tree stump, swirling in the water, harder this time. The stump was curiously misshapen, twisting around in the flowing water. As he watched, a strong current swept it up and carried it into the center of the river at a faster and faster pace. 

            Jackson had escaped.

            The Goa'uld device cursed silently, taking advantage of the host's knowledge of Ibo invective. The brains of this body did not carry the knowledge of this particular strip of land; the real Nwembe had spent the majority of his time inside of Cheyenne Mountain, and his leave time was devoted to charitable works aimed at the nation of his youth. But he did know that this river contained many small sections of white water, rough rock-strewn channels that could pound a human body into senseless clay. It would undoubtedly kill his prey, but that was no longer Nwembe's only goal.

            He needed to re-acquire those crystals.

*          *          *

            O'Neill felt much better. He was in his element. That is, he was sneaking around, something that he was a master of. Carter was up on the hill, watching through binoculars, ready to come charging in with guns blazing if this went south. Well, maybe not charging, really. Limping, sort of, with a gun in her one good hand. But she was up there, watching.

            O'Neill decided not to count on her support.

            There were two of them, guarding the main entrance, trying to look inconspicuous. It was pretty clear that someone had stationed them there. It was equally obvious that the pair hadn't received anything more than the basic training that the Air Force handed out, which made sense since one of them looked awfully like that Schmidt fellow that was hanging around that Nwembe fellow that was hanging around Carter a few weeks ago. Strange fellow, that Nwembe. Most guys O'Neill knew would be drooling over her bod. Nwembe actually paid attention to her brains, of which O'Neill was more than happy to admit that she had plenty of. But any man that didn't appear to appreciate Carter's more obvious assets was someone that O'Neill was suspicious of, and anyone hanging around anyone who didn't appreciate Carter's… crap. Anyone who didn't understand O'Neill's thinking was gonna get shot so that O'Neill didn't have to explain himself anymore.

            He snuck up behind the pair. Which one to take down first? Decisions, decisions. He decided to attack the one he didn't know, a freckle-faced kid that looked to be half O'Neill's age. The name on the kid's collar said Lee. Okay, Lee was going down first. If Schmidt was smart, he'd stay out of the way until O'Neill was ready for him.

            It didn't work out that way. O'Neill popped up with a zat gun and fired directly at Lee. The kid went down faster than a gopher down its den. Schmidt, on notice, dove for cover. O'Neill tried to zap him as well, but the guardhouse got in the way.

            O'Neill grinned. Schmidt was going to make this difficult. That was a good thing, because O'Neill was ready for some action. He'd played nanny for the last three days getting Daniel's artifacts home, he'd played nurse getting Carter home, now it was time to do some real work. He shoulder-rolled behind a couple of barrels. Schmidt obligingly peppered the barrels with gunfire. Real bullets.

            Good. A challenge. O'Neill zatted the flag, which didn't care. Schmidt put a flurry of more bullets into the dirt at O'Neill's feet, kicking up a small dust cloud that didn't hamper O'Neill's vision in the slightest since it was already dark. Must be just after midnight, he realized happily. Best time of day to be awake. He feinted out from the barrels, and drew Schmidt's fire.

            Schmidt pulled back. Empty, O'Neill smirked. Takes a professional ten seconds to ram home another clip, an amateur maybe fifteen. Any more than that and O'Neill would send Schmidt back to Air Force Basic Training. He darted out to take advantage of those seconds, listening hard for the sound of a clip locking into place into a P-90.

            The click never came. O'Neill aimed the zat at Schmidt, and realized that the man was already out cold on the ground.

            O'Neill frowned. Had he gotten lucky with the zat gun? No, couldn't have; Schmidt was emptying his clip after O'Neill had fired the zat. Then what the hell had happened?

            O'Neill approached cautiously, toeing the P-90 far enough away that Schmidt couldn't leap for it, and neither would Lee if the kid woke up unexpectedly. 

            He nudged Schmidt. "Wake up."

            Nothing. He nudged Schmidt again. Schmidt was convincingly limp. O'Neill stuck the zat into his waistband and reached to check out Schmidt, waiting for the man to suddenly jump up and attack.

            Still nothing. Okay, this was strange. And for strange stuff, he wanted Carter. Okay, he really wanted Teal'c and his muscle, but Carter was a good second choice. He waved her down.

            She trotted down from the hillside, binoculars fastened to her belt and the gun still in her good hand. "Nice work, sir."

            "Thanks, but I didn't do it," O'Neill said. "Or at least, I only did half of it. Schmidt here just kinda took a dive."

            "Sir?"

            "I mean, I didn't shoot him. I didn't zap him, either. He didn't fall off a rooftop, he didn't run into my fist, and I don't know why he's taking a nap. Do you?"

            "Uh, no, sir. Maybe we ought to look around inside the base?"

            "I knew I brought you along for something, Carter. Best idea you've had yet."

*          *          *

            Need to hide the crystals. Jackson vaguely remembered chanting about finding a working phone, but right now hiding the damn crystals from the Goa'uld-possessed Nwembe seemed a lot more important. There were eight of them—Jackson felt a moment of panic when he could only count six. Then he remembered; he had dropped one when he crawled out of the cold water, sopping wet. The crystal had broken into two shards, and he thought he remembered leaving them on the ground, glinting in the starlight. He remembered that it hurt to bend over to pick them up, and made him dizzy, which is why he left them behind, even though Nwembe was after them, and him. That was okay. He could keep just the six from Nwembe.

Thinking hurt.

That still didn't sound right. Eight minus one was seven. Jackson had had eight crystals in his pocket when he crawled out of his car and cracked up again a hefty rock in the middle of a hefty and swift moving Cheyenne River. Dammit, he _liked_ that car. Great on gas mileage, just enough room for a suitcase and a load of texts whenever he needed to go to a seminar.

            Wait a minute. _Focus, Daniel_. There were eight crystals. He had counted six. Number eight crystal was now number eight and number nine with the two halves on the rock at his feet. Where was number seven? Jackson looked again at the bag he'd snatched up, and now saw fourteen, give or take a few. Damn. Double vision. Concussion. Well, that explained the killer migraine. He decided to let somebody else worry about how many crystals there were.

            Gotta hide the crystals. Big tall guy with Goa'uld-fried brains coming to get them. And him. Jackson tried to shove the bag under a tree root but the four hands that he saw made it difficult. He tried with just the two right hands, but his fingers were numb from the icy water of the Cheyenne River, and kept bumping into stray tree roots. Finally he just gave up, closed his eyes, and stuck the bag under the tree root by feel.

            Finished. Now gotta get away from this spot. Mustn't lead Nwembe-Goa'uld to this place. He persuaded his numb fingers to help him get up onto numb feet, staggering off and bouncing from tree to tree.

            _Least I haven't fallen down yet. That would be bad._

            Oops.

*          *          *

            "Where is DanielJackson?" Teal'c asked. "I sent him to fetch you."

            "Must have missed him on the road," O'Neill replied. "Carter, can you get the power up and running? We've got a base to rescue."

            "That is imperative," Teal'c agreed. "Stargate personnel have been trapped on several levels of the base for many hours without power or communication, and we will require their services to restore this facility to full operation. Likewise, we must have power if we are to utilize the holding cells for our prisoners." He indicated the pile of Goa'uld-possessed bodies. There were seven of them, all in various states of repose, and not a few bruises.

            "Sir, is there anything we can do for these men?" Carter asked. "I mean, these are our people. We have to help them."

            "Right, Carter. Frasier took a bullet through her arm from one of them. They're sleeping soundly. They can wait." Figueroa snored sonorously in response. O'Neill opened the door to the power control room, the auxilliary lights casting an eerie glow. "Let there be light. Carter, if you please?"

            It took only seconds to pull the switch. Nwembe hadn't been interested in damaging the controls, only cutting the power and trapping the rest of Stargate Command while he and his team acted. The collective sigh of relief below decks was almost audible as the bulkheads slid back and out of the way.

            O'Neill patched himself through system communications. "This is Colonel O'Neill. All personnel are to remain on alert. The base has been under enemy occupation for the last… last…" He cast around.

            "Seven hours," Teal'c supplied.

            "Right. Seven hours. Standard sweep protocols go into effect as of right now. All section leaders, report in to me in Hammond's quarters." He tapped off the relay and turned to the other two. "Crap. I hate being in charge. Do you know how much paperwork there's gonna be from this? When did Frasier say that General Hammond could come out to play?"

            "She did not indicate any time frame," Teal'c said. "She was somewhat preoccupied with keeping him—and others, including herself—alive."

            "Yeah." O'Neill sobered, remembering the state of the infirmary. It wasn't that he liked the place—quite the opposite—but seeing it shot up like that, bags of fluid leaking on the floor, monitors dark with their screens smashed in—made him more than a little upset. Maybe it was the blood on the floor that hadn't come from a nice sterile plastic bag. And somebody messing with his favorite doctor… "Hey. Where's Daniel? He with the others, downstairs and trapped?"

            "As I indicated previously, I sent him to fetch you and Major Carter. Did you not pass him on the road to town? He left shortly after midnight."

            "We should have seen his car," O'Neill said slowly. "That little European model, with the hamsters working overtime to get up to forty. Could we have missed him? What time did he leave?"

            "He left us in the infirmary some few minutes prior to midnight. He would have spent additional time checking the armory, as well as alternative methods of communication in an attempt to contact you, Colonel O'Neill. Had he left the base, I would estimate that it would have been approximately forty minutes ago."

            "Right as we were coming in," Carter confirmed grimly. "Sir, request permission to take a team and go look for him. We can start in the armory, and his office, and work our way out—"

            "Permission denied, Carter."

            "Sir, I—"

            "Carter, it's not because you've got a broken wrist. It's because I need you more on base, getting this place up and running again. Carter, we've got a bunch of people wandering around thinking they're miniature Goa'uld. I need someone that I can trust not to go all glowy-eyed on me. And you're the mechanical genius around here."

            "Oh." Carter was only partially mollified. "Sir, we've got them locked up."

            "Right. There may be more than just the seven we've got here, and Nwembe. Handle it, Carter. Think of it as a temporary promotion, until Hammond wakes up. I think somebody needs to go after Nwembe, and that somebody needs to be me. Without a broken wrist." O'Neill cocked his head at Teal'c, ignoring Carter's barely concealed snort of exasperation. "You up to this, big guy?"

            Teal'c flexed his shoulder. Not completely healed, but adequate under the circumstances. "I am, O'Neill."

*          *          *

            One glance at the parking structure showed that Jackson's little cardboard box on wheels was missing. A quick head count from team leaders calling in showed both Jackson himself and the geek named Nwembe were also missing, and one of the base sedans had gone bye-bye as well. O'Neill added two plus two to get four, multiplied by a newly demolished guard rail over a disturbingly steep cliff, and came up with an unhappy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

            "Trouble magnet," he muttered under his breath, stepping on the gas. The V-8 engine under the hood roared obligingly, proving that not only could O'Neill's specially tuned engine do zero to sixty in under thirty seconds, it could corner better than anything else coming out of that parking structure.

            Teal'c favored the colonel with frigid stare, swaying in the passenger seat against the sharp turns. "It is I, O'Neill, who sent DanielJackson on this mission. The blame is mine. He has not trained for this work—"

            "And I could blame Carter for not recognizing that the artifacts were actually Goa'uld brain-washers. And Daniel for dragging them back through the Stargate in the first place, Teal'c. But the buck stops here. Me. I'm in charge. I could've just said no." He slammed on the brakes to keep from going over the same embankment that Jackson had, just inches from the ruptured guard rail. "Here." He handed over a powerful flashlight, designed to cut through the two AM darkness. If Teal'c's timeline was accurate, Jackson had taken this one way trip less than an hour ago. There was still a chance. Jackson could swim. The rapids weren't all that rapid this time of year. The fall had been cushioned by the little car, and Jackson kept safe by a good set of seatbelts. O'Neill kept his tone light, the better to disguise his worry. "Let's go find one slightly bruised archeologist."

*          *          *

            Carter felt immensely uncomfortable sitting in General Hammond's massive leather chair before an equally massive paper-strewn desk, but it was the best place to be to coordinate all the reports coming in. Little had been damaged, and Stargate Command was slowly coming back to normal. Linkages were restored, communication lines recovered with the outside world, and the Pentagon had been reassured that a Goa'uld frontal assault was no longer a probability and that nuking the SGC would be a waste of a good bomb.

            An entire team had been assigned to cleaning up the infirmary, Frasier directing operations from her stretcher until the trauma surgeon Dr. Whittaker threatened to sedate her to put her out of everyone else's misery. Frasier shut up, but retired, arm in a sling, to her office to study the problem of how to get a Goa'uld virus out of several brains.

            The prisoners, all seven of them, had been relocated to a holding cell on level twenty-four with a couple of guards watching them. All but one had revived, and were glaring at their captors with undisguised hatred. Pedersen in particular was vehement in discussing what their unwanted Goa'uld masters would do to the Stargate personnel. Carter directed that cameras record every movement and sound that the men uttered; Jackson would undoubtedly want to study the new curses and insults to add to his Goa'uld vocabulary. Jackson had informed her over a year ago that Teal'c was extremely reluctant to use such language in his presence without provocation, and that it was holding Jackson back from speaking Goa'uld more fluently than he did.

            "Only Schmidt hasn't woken up," Carter told O'Neill when he called in for an update, "but we've isolated him with the other men who were taken over by the Goa'ulds. Schmidt was the one that you didn't K.O; the one who did the swan dive without prompting. Sir, we've recovered all eight artifacts in Daniel's office, and stowed them in a secure place. I'm still not getting any radiation from them, but we're not taking any chances. And, sir, it looks like they held crystals of some kind. I'm finding definite traces of Goa'uld crystals that were removed from each artifact. Sir, those crystals weren't there before. Somehow they appeared sometime after I examined those artifacts back on the planet. I think we'd better find the crystals. They may be the key to this whole mess."

            "Ya think?" O'Neill couldn't help saying sarcastically into the radio. He relented. "We found Daniel's car, stuck nose down in the Cheyenne River, but no Daniel. The seat belt was unfastened, so we're hoping that he got himself out." He shivered in the cold night air; he hadn't yet changed from diving into the river after the archeologist. _Daniel had better appreciate my efforts._ "Call the MacAuliffe Air Force Base and get a chopper into the air with some search lights or, better, some infra-red. Have 'em look downstream for any signs of Daniel. Or Nwembe. Teal'c and I are gonna do the bloodhound work on the ground. O'Neill out."

            "You had best change into dry clothing, O'Neill," Teal'c observed. "Your shivering will delay our progress."

            "Yeah." O'Neill tried to keep his teeth from chattering. "Dammit," he snarled when the two pieces of broken crystal slid from his hand. And a heartfelt "Crap" when the two halves shattered into crystalline dust.

            O'Neill cursed under his breath. "And I just found those. I'll bet Carter would've wanted to look at 'em." He looked at Teal'c and shrugged. "She'll hand me my ass."

            Teal'c nodded. "On Chulak, there is a wise old saying that tells us never to anger a strong woman, for she is the most ferocious of all Jaffa." He eyed O'Neill thoughtfully. "You have my word, Colonel O'Neill. Major Carter will not learn from me what has transpired here."

            "Thanks, big guy. I owe you one."

*          *          *

            "What do you mean, they escaped?" Carter snarled into the telephone, wondering just when she had started to sound like Colonel O'Neill at his most sarcastic. "How did this happen?" No, not quite like the colonel. Right about now the air would have been filled with enough profane language to power a nuclear generator. "Well?"

            "Ma'am, I mean, major, I mean, it was Schmidt," the hapless corporal stammered.

            "The one who was still sleeping. I hope you don't intend to tell me that he slept his way out of captivity, with SGC's finest watching?"

            "No, ma'am. I mean, he woke up, ma'am. Major."

            "And—?" Carter prompted impatiently.

            "He woke up, ma'am, but he wasn't a Goa'uld any more. I mean, his eyes didn't glow, not that they did anyway but…"

            "He woke up," Carter growled to get the downy-cheeked kid back on track.

            "Yes, ma'am. And he wasn't a Goa'uld any more. So the other prisoners noticed and started trying to kill him. We couldn't stand by and let that happen! I mean, it was Lieutenant Schmidt! For real this time, Major! So we went in—"

            "How many of you?" Carter broke in.

            She could hear the wince across the phone. "Umm, three, ma'am."

            "Three. Against six Goa'uld-controlled, SGC-trained men. Brilliant strategy, corporal," she couldn't help adding. "Where are they now?"

            "We were able to take Moravian and Chung back into custody, ma'am."

            Great. The two who had the element of surprise on their side, and couldn't manage to take out one sleepy and half-drunk Air Force colonel and his wounded and drugged sidekick. Carter was less than impressed with the miserable corporal. "And the other four?"

            "Uh…"

            "You don't know," Carter translated in exasperation. "Well, get on the stick, corporal! Find them! Requisition the men you need, but find them!" She slammed the phone down on its receiver, wishing she had the nerve to break it. But it was General Hammond's phone. _Colonel O'Neill would have_, a little voice sniggered at her.

            The phone rang at her again.

            "Major Carter, the Stargate relays are down. What do you want us to do?"

            "Fix them," she growled. _Do I have to tell you to wipe your noses, too?_ "SG-8 is due in within the hour. Get the Gate up and running. That's an order!"

            "Major Carter, the front gate…"

            "Major Carter, the water tanks…"

            "Major Carter, the power station…"

            It was with relief that Carter faced the man who burst into Hammond's office, murder in his eye. She finally understood O'Neill's frequently voiced desire to "beat the crap out of somebody."

            And here was the answer to her prayers: Murphy. A Goa'uld-possessed Murphy who was trying to kill her. 

            Carter grinned.

*          *          *

            "How far downstream could he have traveled?" O'Neill wondered aloud. "Could we have missed him?"

            "I do not believe so," Teal'c answered. "I have heard nothing that I can attribute to DanielJackson stumbling about in the woods, nor have the helicopter's heat-detectors discovered anything larger than an elderly raccoon." But the Jaffa suddenly held up his hand. "O'Neill. Look."

            "At what?" The ground looked featureless in the three AM darkness.

            "Someone has walked here recently," Teal'c announced, "but it was not DanielJackson. From the length of the stride, I believe it was Captain Nwembe. He walks purposefully, after a target."

            "That target being Daniel," O'Neill supplied.

            "I believe you are correct. We must hurry."

            Not fifty yards further downstream Teal'c again held up his hand for O'Neill's attention.

            "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Daniel's footsteps."

            "And a handprint, on the ground. DanielJackson fell here, and here. From this I surmise that he has been injured, most likely during his plunge from the cliff in his car. I also see that the prints are wetter than the surrounding terrain. He has not bothered to change his clothing. Likely he had none to change into."

            "Getting a chill is going to be the least of his worries," O'Neill observed. "How far back are we?"

            "It is difficult to say. Not far."

            "And Nwembe."

            "Ahead of us, but not by far. I believe we have made good time."

            "Then let's hustle," O'Neill started to say when his newly recharged cell phone warbled at him. "O'Neill."

            "Colonel? It's Carter. Listen, we've got a problem back here."

            "I know that, Carter. That's why I left you in charge. You're good at repairing things."

            "No, sir. I mean, yes sir, I am, but that's not the problem. One of our problem children woke up."

            "That's good."

            "No, sir, that's bad. The others tried to kill him."

            "That's bad."

            "No, sir, that's good. It means that he is no longer controlled by the crystal from Daniel's artifacts."

            "That's good."

            "No, sir, that's bad. Our people had to go in to rescue him."

            "That's bad?"

            "No, sir, that's good—"

            "Carter, quit the commentary!" O'Neill roared. "Get to the damned point!"

            "Yes, sir. Sir, we think each of the crystals controls one of our people. Eight artifacts, eight crystals, and eight victims. You found the crystal broken in two, and Schmidt went nighty-night approximately when I think it happened. When you dropped the crystal and it shattered, Schmidt woke up. Which means you have to find the rest of the crystals and destroy them as soon as possible, sir. That will release our people from Goa'uld control."

            "We're trying, Carter. Daniel didn't exactly make this easy."

            "Sir, there's more." Carter sounded distinctly unhappy over the phone. "Sir, the rest of the men that the crystals control, the ones that we haven't recaptured—" she carefully avoided looking at the bruised and bloodied heap on General Hammond's floor—"have barricaded themselves in the power control room. Sir, they're overloading the circuits. I estimate that we have less than an hour before it blows." Her broken wrist throbbed at her; in her glee she'd forgotten that she shouldn't use the splint as a club.

            "Carter, retake that room, and that's an order!"

            "Yes, sir; we're trying. But I think it might be a very good idea if you were to locate those crystals and smash them. The sooner the better, sir. Having those men wake up will prevent a very big bang, if you get what I'm saying, sir."

            O'Neill was impressed. Carter, give up a chance to study an alien technology? Carter, advocating the wanton destruction of crystals representing a century's worth of leaping forward in scientific knowledge? She must be scared, but too damned stubborn to admit it. O'Neill turned to Teal'c. "I think we'd better hustle."

*          *          *

            Jackson could think better if Nwembe didn't pound his head against the edge of a small cliff posing as the river's edge. He could feel the spray of the white water leaping up to dampen his already soggy head, and it felt colder than the rest of him.

            "Where are the crystals?" Nwembe demanded. He back-handed Jackson across the cheek, rocking the man's head backward and almost tumbling them both into the Cheyenne River. "Tell me!"

It was pretty hard to talk, too. Was his jaw broken? Maybe a loose tooth or two.  Breathing wasn't great either, after Nwembe discovered the ribs broken in the first fall into the river and kicked in a couple more. Jackson thought blearily that Nwembe's plot was to have been to assassinate the SG-1 team. Right now it seemed like all the Goa'uld-controlled man wanted to do was to keep Jackson alive for more torture. Who did Nwembe think he was? Apophis?

"I don't remember," he croaked, and received another blow for his honesty.

"Think harder," Nwembe hissed. "Or I will kill you here and now."

That was a threat? It sounded like a pretty good end to a miserable day, if Nwembe only would hurry up and do it. "I hid them."

"I know that, fool. Where?"

"In the forest." Did that come out understandably? It must have, for it earned him another crack across the temple. Vision blurred, and again it didn't matter. Jackson didn't like what he was seeing anyway. Four copies of Nwembe was five too many. _Never was good at math._

"Where in the forest?"

More thinking came through. Nwembe wanted the crystals. Nwembe was the enemy. Therefore, Jackson couldn't let Nwembe have the crystals. Simple logic, right?

So why did it hurt so much?

*          *          *

Teal'c held up his hand for silence. O'Neill held his breath. Teal'c pointed. "There."

O'Neill heard it, too. The chittering of the night insects tried hard to obliterate the sound with their chirps and calls to attract a mate—_who'd want a bug as ugly as you?—but there, at least a hundred yards away to the east, were sounds of a human interaction. Not a pleasant interaction, either. Whenever O'Neill traveled through this neck of the woods, and during the daytime thank-you-very-much, there were scenes of underage adolescents pretending to be Romeo and Juliet and gangs of thirteen year olds pretending that they liked the taste of beer._

No, this sounded like someone having not so pleasant a time. There were angry shouts, then a pause during which O'Neill didn't want to think about what was happening, and then another angry shout.

"Trouble magnet," he muttered again. "Let's move."

It wasn't hard to find them. Nwembe was making no attempt to hide, and even the moonless dark couldn't disguise their whereabouts. Seeing exactly what was happening was more problematic: there was one tall and skinny figure holding another not so tall figure down by the throat against a two foot high cliffeHeHe, threatening him with a cold dousing in the Cheyenne River rushing by. The sounds of the rapids downstream almost, but not quite, drowned out the voices.

Nwembe didn't see them until it was too late. He scrambled to his feet only to be knocked off of them by a seriously annoyed Jaffa. He landed on an indelicate spot, slipped, and slid off of the cliff into swirling waters below. He disappeared into the night-darkened spray with a shout. Teal'c snarled in frustration.

Jackson, relieved of Nwembe's tight hold on his throat, relaxed, and it was his undoing. Off-balance and already half over the short cliff, water-loosened dirt gave way beneath him. With a "oh, hell, not the river again," he too slipped into the churning river.

"Daniel!" O'Neill yelled. And, "Crap!" as he dove in after the archeologist.

Damn, but the river was cold! And he only just gotten his clothes dried off from diving in after Daniel's car. O'Neill surfaced, grabbed another breath, and took his bearings. This was getting old.

Of Nwembe there was no sign. Okay, he could live with that, for the moment. O'Neill needed the crystals, and for that he needed Daniel. Teal'c was already running down the river's edge, the riverbank several feet higher than the spray, yelling and pointing at a suspiciously Daniel-sized dark lump clinging to a rock. O'Neill allowed the swift current to sweep him in that general direction.

He was there before he realized it. He grabbed at Daniel, catching hold of the man's shirt. It half-ripped before O'Neill was able to clutch at the same boulder that Jackson had attached himself to.

"Daniel!" he shouted.

Jackson kept his eyes closed, barely a sign that he'd heard O'Neill over the roar of the rapids. O'Neill clutched the torn shirt and shook him.

"Jack." The archeologist summoned the energy to utter something he thought that O'Neill would want to hear: "What took you so long?"

"You idiot! You think I'm going to be around to haul your ass out of every scrape you get into?"

"Nobody asked you to, Jack."

"You're right; the Air Force never asked, they just told me to keep your ass intact! I think they said brains, but they're already scrambled."

"Got it in one," Jackson murmured, closing his eyes again.

"Daniel?" O'Neill shook him as best he could in the rushing current. "Daniel, stay with me here. Teal'c!"

In response, the Jaffa fed out a sturdy rope, standing upstream so that the end floated down to the pair. O'Neill made a grab for it, nearly losing his hold on Jackson and the boulder, and missed.

"What is this, every cliché in the book?" O'Neill snarled to no one in particular. "I miss the first two times, and grab it on the third and final time, just before yours truly gets washed down the creek?"

Teal'c hauled the rope back, hand over hand, swiftly curling it up in readiness for another try. He cast the line out, trying for another bite.

O'Neill bit. This second time he managed to snag the end—_hah! Beat that cliché!—_and dragged it in to his chest. Teal'c had thoughtfully included a loop in the end. O'Neill opened the loop to man-size and snugged it around the archeologist. He had a bit of trouble getting the arms through, since Jackson insisted on clinging to the boulder to keep from being swept away, but many curses later the rope was in place. O'Neill signalled to Teal'c.

O'Neill had to pry Jackson's fingers off of the boulder. Jackson was beyond thinking, and recognizing that Teal'c was attempting to rescue him was harder than translating Ancient writings on a planet in a far distant corner of the galaxy. But O'Neill persevered, alternately cursing and cajoling and finally losing his patience and knocking Jackson's wrist free of the knobby granite protrusion. Jackson tumbled away from the stone outcropping, flailing at the white water, only to be tugged hand over hand to the shore by mighty Jaffa muscles.

The water wasn't deep, O'Neill discovered, but it was powerful. He had once been caught in a flash flood many years ago, and this was similar. He could touch the river's bed, but only for a moment until the rushing water swept his feet away and threatened to carry him downstream as it had the hapless Nwembe. The power of the current swiftly dissuaded him from attempting to reach shore on his own.

Teal'c again threw the line, and O'Neill caught it on the first cast. _Practice makes perfect. I like that cliché better_. He looped it under his own arms and, with a prayer to the heavens—and a curse to the Goa'uld, in case any were listening—he stepped away from the boulder.

The current grabbed him with a force to take his breath away. He tumbled head over heels, only righting himself after colliding with a solid and unmoveable rock. _Gonna have a big honkin' bruise there. Another curse to the Goa'uld. __Wouldn't be here if it weren't for the snakes._

O'Neill would never remember clearly how he made it to shore, huffing and wheezing, drenched with more than river water. He lay there, dripping onto the dark and cold forest ground, watering the plants that got plenty of water from the white water spray that continually churned up and over the river's edge. He coughed, removing the remnants of the river from his lungs, and was gratified to hear Jackson doing the same.

"The helicopter is searching for an appropriate landing site," Teal'c informed him. "They will be here presently."

"Great," O'Neill croaked, coughing again. "Daniel?"

"He is injured, but alive."

"Crystals?"

"The remaining crystals are not on his person. I fear they have been lost in the river."

"Better not have been." O'Neill hoisted himself to his feet, staggering. Teal'c steadied him with one hand. "Having a certain base go boom will be bad for my pension plan."

Teal'c looked blank, then altered his features back to impassive.

O'Neill stared at him. "What's wrong with your arm?"

"I fear I have re-injured it while retrieving you and DanielJackson from the river. It is of no major import. We must find the crystals, O'Neill. Major Carter has been attempting to reach you again. She sounds most urgent."

Carter chose that moment to call him again. Urgently. Her voice didn't have its familiar chirp, O'Neill noted. In fact, she sounded downright waspish. "Have you found the crystals yet?"

No 'sir', either.

O'Neill said a word to his second in command that he'd never said to her before. "No, Carter, we haven't. We just found Daniel."

"Well, hurry it up. We've got ten minutes before the base blows. If we're lucky."

"Evacuate the base, Carter."

"Been there, done that," she snarled. "Smash the damned crystals." And hung up on him.

Sounded like Carter was ready to graduate from the O'Neill Finishing School of Military Command, O'Neill reflected. Which was not necessarily a good thing. One O'Neill was plenty.

He approached Jackson. "Daniel, where are the crystals?"

"I don't have them." Jackson tried to withdraw into himself, shivering.

"I know that, Daniel." It was tough to be patient. There was a base, ready to explode. "We need them, Daniel. Where are they?"

"Go away, Nwembe. I won't tell you."

"Daniel, listen to me." _God, I so don't have time for this_. "Daniel, it's Jack. We need the crystals. Carter says we have to destroy them, to save the Stargate. Do you understand me?"

Jackson opened his eyes. "Jack?"

_At last: progress. "Yes, Daniel. Where are the crystals?"_

"Jack?"

The greatest brains of this century: waterlogged. O'Neill struggled to keep from strangling the man. "Yes, Daniel. I'm here. Where are the crystals?"

"I hid them."

"Where, Daniel?"

"Over there." Jackson waved an arm in an upstream direction. At an impatient signal from O'Neill, some dozen recently landed SG personnel from the helicopter fanned out to search. O'Neill hadn't realized that they'd arrived until that moment, but that didn't stop him from ordering them into action. There wasn't much time.

"That's a start, Daniel. Exactly where?"

"There are four of you," Jackson said, trying to enunciate, shivering so that the words barely came out.

"That's right. And none of us have much time. Where did you hide the crystals?"

"Under some roots," Jackson replied. "Four sets of roots. I think."

Teal'c hooked his one good hand under Jackson's arm and bodily lifted the archeologist to his feet. "We must find them swiftly, DanielJackson."

"Teal'c?" Jackson finally recognized the Jaffa.

"It is I, DanielJackson. Where are the crystals?"

"Good. I can tell you. And Jack. Where is Jack?"

"Right here, Daniel." Crap, he hated concussion. Even more than when he himself had it, O'Neill reflected. So damn irritating when you couldn't think straight. "Find the crystals."

"Over here." Jackson led them in a staggering pattern upstream, almost to the river's edge. O'Neill's flashlight caught on a tree trunk that showed a smear of blood, and wished that it hadn't. Was that Jackson's or Nwembe's blood? _Three guesses, and the first two don't count._ "I hid them under some roots. In a bag."

"Roots," O'Neill repeated. He played his flash over the ground, trying for the balance between speed and accuracy, expected at any moment to see a great big flash of light erupt from a certain mountain base. "Which roots, Daniel?" A small, misshapen lump of cloth caught his eye. He pounced.

Seven crystals in a rainbow of colors spilled out, glinting in the echo of his handflash.

"Got 'em!" O'Neill shouted. He brought his flashlight down on each one in rapid succession, smashing them all into dust.

*          *          *

O'Neill grinned. There was a great deal right with the world. A shower had removed most of his night's work, and a shave completed his appearance of being in control. He had been right, there was a god-awful bruise across his ribs, courtesy of a boulder in the Cheyenne River, but Frasier had been in no shape to give him the once-over, and the day he couldn't fool that idiot Whittaker was the day he'd be introducing Apophis to his Auntie Sophia. He surveyed the group in the infirmary, a grin pasted across his face.

Janet Frasier lay in one bed, Whittaker finishing some embroidery on her shoulder where he'd removed Pederson's bullet. Whittaker had taken the precaution of administering plenty of narcotics, but she was still criticizing his work. And criticizing some more when the next sutures went into a less than well anesthetized section of skin something less than accidentally. O'Neill wondered if he ought to tell Whittaker to send Frasier home to finish healing. It would be bad form to have two doctors slugging it out in their own infirmary.

Next slot: Carter, wrist immobilized in a heavy cast and arm hauled up on a trapeze to keep it elevated. Once again her face was falling-over white and pupils wide enough to drive a stinger through, after all the drugs Whittaker had forced down her protesting throat. O'Neill had seen the mess she'd made of the Goa'uld-controlled Murphy, and was impressed. All that, and repaired the power generators, too. A good woman to have around the base. _And I'm glad that smashing the crystals turned out to be what she wanted me to do. I could look as bad as Murphy if she'd wanted me to save one intact._

It was with difficulty that O'Neill had convinced Teal'c to remain in the base infirmary so that Junior could finally finish repairing his shoulder. Though he denied it, O'Neill knew that the big man was hurting; the symbiote interfered with pain-killers, though it compensated by curing the damage in hours rather than days, damage that had been caused by hauling two soggy bodies out of the Cheyenne River with imperfectly healed muscles. "I need you to watch over them," O'Neill had finally told him, appealing to the Jaffa's sense of protectiveness toward the rest of the SG team.  "What if smashing the crystals didn't release Nwembe and the others from the Goa'uld mind-crap? What if they come storming back into the infirmary? You think Carter's gonna take 'em all out? She did it once. Don't count on it again, big guy." Which made about as much sense as Daniel did in his concussion, but it did the trick. Teal'c allowed himself to be convinced. _Kel-no-reem_ could wait for a more auspicious moment.

Even Jackson was no longer shivering, the cold from the river banished under blankets and heating lamps. The broken ribs didn't show, but the bruises on his face did. O'Neill winced. Nwembe had done a thorough job of trying to obtain the location of the Goa'uld crystals from Jackson, and the entire base was still in existence because Jackson had held out. O'Neill thought the archeologist had done a pretty damn fine job escaping from Cheyenne Mountain and getting as far as he did. All that talking at him from both O'Neill and Teal'c must have done some good when he wasn't looking. "Trouble magnet," he said.

Jackson looked up blearily, not certain which Jack O'Neill to focus on. "Damn concussion." He finally settled on closing his eyes so that he wouldn't have to cope. "This is not fair, Jack. This time I wasn't supposed to end up in the infirmary. It was your turn."

"But I'm not the trouble magnet," O'Neill pointed out. "You're the one who wanted to play with rocks."

Jackson sighed. "Artifacts."

"Booby trap for a trouble magnet."

"Go away, Jack."

 SG forces had found Captain Nwembe a mile downstream, equally battered from the white water and appalled at what he'd done, now that he was in control of his own mind and body. He and the rest of the Goa'uld team had been sequestered under guard to ensure that the effect of smashing the crystals was permanent, but Nwembe was going to have a hard time facing Jackson. Not that Jackson would make it difficult. Daniel could forgive anyone. Well, maybe not Apophis. But anyone else. For anything. Probably. But none of Nwembe's team were happy campers, insisting on apologizing to anyone and everyone that would listen to them, begging for forgiveness. Pedersen, when O'Neill spoke to him, requested a court martial, folding down into a little ball of misery when O'Neill told him to shut up and start thinking sensibly.

Even General Hammond seemed content to just lie there on the bed in the infirmary and let O'Neill gleefully rule, nestling his head on the pillow and relaxing on the bed next to Jackson's. Whittaker had taken off most of the beeping monitors and a few of the hanging drippy things, but Hammond's face was still chalky. It would be a few days before the general would be up and running again. More like hobbling, O'Neill suspected.

But in the meantime, O'Neill intended to enjoy the moment, inspecting each and every one of his team and glorying in his own ability to actually walk and talk without wincing. He beamed at them all, the only one who was on his feet and in control of his own destiny. "Well, campers," he said, "it's eight o'clock in the morning, and I am about to enjoy a nice day of ordering everyone else on the base to clean up while I put my feet up. Are we all ready for a nice day of beddy-bye, and some of Frasier's ever-so-sharp injections? Oops, I forgot," he interrupted himself, grinning. "They're _Whittaker's_ ever-so-sharp injections. Stab away, doctor. I'll just stand here and watch."

A snarl from Frasier's direction. O'Neill ignored it, still grinning.

"Absolutely, Colonel," Hammond responded. He folded his arms behind his head, using the nonchalance learned over the years. "I've needed a few days off for some time now. I may even take some extra, spend some time with my granddaughters." He paused, as if to think. No one was fooled. "I'll expect my desk to be cleared of all papers by the time Dr. Whittaker releases me and I return to my office. Enjoy your command."


End file.
